


The Price of a Prince

by CandyassGoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Breeding, Death not of Sherlock or John, Doctor John, Hand Job, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Politics, Poor Everyone, Prince Sherlock, Rutting, Sherlock Hates Being Omega, Someone dies, War, alternative universe, but john makes it bearable, implied rape, olden day, sweet molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyassGoth/pseuds/CandyassGoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock. Sherlock X John Watson. AU. </p><p>Sherlock is the Prince of England, brother to King Mycroft. He also happens to be an omega. Tired of being cooped up in the palace, Sherlock sneaks out and runs away to live independently and experience life as a commoner. No one suspects who he is and all goes well until enemies to the throne pillage his town. Being injured and captured into the enemies hand is one thing, but entering his rut at the same time is even worse. Weak, needy and unable to think Sherlock is at risk of losing what makes him the great Prince Sherlock. Until he meets Doctor Watson who seems too good to be true.</p><p>Sensitive topics. Sort of omegaverse. Politics. warfare. Rutting Sherlock and Doctor John. Sweet nurse Molly. Insane Moriarty and cruel Irene. Character death. Implied rape. I hope no OOCness. Maybe some, rut makes you weird. No Sherlock rape. Not this fic. But Johnlock rutting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eager Descent down Ragged Lane

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift fic to my soulmate. I've never written these characters before, besides a crack oneshot or two, so give me slack if the characters are wonky. 
> 
>  
> 
> Supposed to be omegaverse but not as much as I wanted...I'm sorry. But still fun aspects. King Mycroft too, couldn't pass that up. Little Prince Sherlock, yis. Also, some real and some made up town names.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy first chapter and I apologise for errors~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock
> 
> Someone mentioned my use of omegaverse phrases. I personally chose to use the term 'heat' for females, and 'rut' for males, regardless of status. This was a rush fic, didn't aim for technicalities, but should be enjoyable nonetheless. I hope it doesn't bug anyone!

_**Chapter 1: Eager Descent down Ragged Lane** _

Pacing around his neat office, fidgety hands clasped behind his back, the King of England looked down upon his company with a disappointed frown. The usual frown. The frown frowned a hundred times over. The Grand Clock ticked peacefully against the wall behind his velvet plush armchair, the birds chirped merrily outside the sparkling windows, and the day was bright and cheerful- outside the personal little world of the Holmes brothers, that is.

King Mycroft circled his younger brother, fingers tapping out of habit, a silent beat their father had once used. His object of attention, the fast-witted and brilliant Prince of England, stood still simply for the sake of it, making the utmost effort to not roll his eyes.

"How will you ever be a proper advisor of the council if you cannot handle petty affairs of the commoners? Not to mention finding a wife who will put up with you, prince or not." Mycroft said, knowing full well his words would fall on deaf ears, but speaking anyway because he had passed his patience threshold. A threshold only Sherlock knew how to crawl under.

Opening his mouth with a pop Sherlock looked away impatiently, gritting his teeth lightly as he scowled. "There we go again with that wife nonsense. Has it _ever_ crossed your mind that maybe I don't want a wife, _or_ to deal with the never-ending pettiness of commoners?"

"Well, of course I have Sherlock," Mycroft said, his tone boarding a mock, "but it does not exempt you from your duties either. You have roles to fill, duties to perform, just like everyone else."

"Then given my status I think I am exempted from the former." The topic of marriage was extremely sensitive to Sherlock. It was not something he allowed to be spoken of around him. Woman or man, he was not about to sign away his freedom to a spouse. He wasn't King, he wasn't the older brother, he wasn't the head role model to the people, and he didn't want to be either.

Mycroft scoffed at the petulance. "You are a prince and so you have the luxury of choice. _Be grateful_." he added softly as if the walls were listening.

Waving a dismissive hand the prince smiled, but it didn't each his eyes, his tone dull and careful. "Come on Mycroft, I have absolutely no interest in such affairs. You should be glad your little brother isn't trying to steal the crown."

"Sherlock, just because I am King does not mean you are free to live out the rest of your days without responsibility. What if I meet my end tomorrow? The people will need a leader, and that will be you. There is no avoiding it."

"So that Irene woman you're marrying won't take power?" Sherlock fished childishly. He threw Mycroft a hopeful look, but Mycroft was too edgy to call his bluff and instead spat back at him.

"Don't be absurd, not so long as you are alive, you know this. Stop avoiding responsibility and grow up!"

"I'll do so when you meet your end, which is centuries if I am lucky."

"You need to find a partner and settle yourself, _any_ partner-" Mycroft started, wishing that in their world existed a woman (or man) that could handle and possibly even love Sherlock for all that he was. And in Sherlock's case, _all_ is a _lot_. Maybe his ego would deflate and he'd fall off his high horse. But then again, it could turn him into a little monster if he found someone that worshipped him. Mycroft couldn't decide if to actively encourage the idea to Sherlock or forever leave him to roam the palace alone. Every argument they had Mycroft was at a loss of which to stick by.

At the word 'partner' Sherlock turned away with a loud noise, hoping to shut his brother up. "Oh God-"

"-then maybe you would grow _up_." Mycroft wheezed the last word.

Mashing his lips together Sherlock pointed a finger at Mycroft, glaring at the loud sigh he received. "I am just as smart as you are, Mycroft. I could be you _if_ I wanted to, but I don't."

"All I am begging is that you would not so callously belittle the commoners for problems you are too high and mighty to resolve. We are looked to for wisdom and guidance, you are no longer a boy and you cannot hide behind that excuse anymore. You love to provide solutions but only when you feel like. A king's job is never done."

"Firstly, I am not the king. Secondly, they were fighting over land neither legally possessed. It's simple, how could they stand and argue before us like heathens when it's obvious- _simple_ _even_ -"

Mycroft sharply cut in, shaking his head calmly like their mother would do when either of them argued their part, especially when they knew they were wrong but stuck by it anyway. "No Sherlock. It is never simple."

"Mycroft-"

"Causing strife is simple, arguing is simple, but avoiding it is hard. And what was Mother's motto?"

Sherlock wanted to punch him. A good childish punch in the chest, and then topple over his astray and grind the ashes into the fluffy carpet with his shoe before striding out. He hated when Mycroft treated him like a child, even if he was acting like one. After grinding his teeth instead, he muttered out their mother's old saying. "...The right path will never be wholly simple. If it is, it's the wrong path."

Mycroft looked pleased, perhaps a little too pleased, and headed towards his desk. "Precisely. I am not asking you to do taxes and count the masses. I just request your attention and participation when I ask for it. You need to know how to run the land at least somewhat if anything were to happen to me. Is that so much to ask?" he asked as he sat down, wishing Sherlock would sit too and allow him into that vast universe he called a mind.

"I know how to work the system, it's logical. I just hate dealing with the commoners." Sherlock said, and gave Mycroft a look that said 'are you even listening'? All the commoners did was whine about each other, and he couldn't bear to waste time listening to them like Mycroft did.

"We all have to do things we don't like." Mycroft said, answering the facial expression. He looked down at his wristwatch and his expression changed somewhat, the brother-face falling away for the king-face. "Ah, Madam Adler should be here soon."

Sherlock jumped at the chance to disappear. "Good, I'll take my leave."

"Are you sure you don't want to meet her?"

"Positive." Sherlock said, with as much assurance as he could muster, and a hint of sarcasm. He turned and took his leave, ignoring the shake of his brother's head and the way it made his chest tighten.

"You cannot avoid every alpha female, Sherlock," Mycroft called after him, "she isn't going to bite you."

Maybe not physically, but he knew enough about alpha females and their tendencies to look down upon omegas. Especially male omegas. There was no chance in hell he would stand for it, he would not give it the chance if he could avoid it. He was Prince Sherlock Holmes, and until she was queen he had every right to avoid her like the plague.

Sherlock hurried away to his room, the beauty of the palace lost to his eyes in a blur of familiar markings that lost meaning. He was so sick of it. Sick of the white marble floors, the blue drapes in the corridors, the spotless windows that shone everyday. He was sick of the servants fussing over him and he was sick of the commoners expecting things from him. And most of all, he was sick of Mycroft doing both.

Truthfully he was being dramatic, but only because otherwise Mycroft and the council tended to overlook his opinion. They said he was shallow and heartless in his judgements and opinions, but he begged to differ. He was logical; he didn't give in to fake tears and cries. Spotting a lying man was as simple as seeing an honest man, and it seemed he was the only one who could point them out on the spot.

Unfortunately he grew the reputation of being bratty and an insufferable know-it all. But that was fine, it meant he could have more time to himself and his thoughts, which began to travel beyond the palace walls.

To put it bluntly, he was utterly bored, and he wanted to leave. Mycroft kept him locked up, and while he had been fine with it, having privacy and an enormous library, and servants to go out and buy him whatever he wanted, he now knew all there was to know inside his home. He wanted to see the outside world himself, _by_ himself. Having guards accompany him didn't count, and the few times he and Mycroft snuck out as children were nothing to sate him.

He did, of course, understand why Mycroft kept him bundled in the palace; he couldn't go prancing alone in the world with his status. A royal omega prince was both a curse and a gift. He could be either a King or Queen if he wished if the time came, he was as beautiful as both and being of royal blood he was a prime candidate for royal babies, given or birthed. But it also made him a target for enemies to the throne that saw him as a weakness in the family. Though he often grew excited by adventures and being rebellious, he knew the seriousness of his situation, and remained inside for both all their peace of mind.

But he was much further grown now than the last time Mycroft all but shouted at him about being careful, like he was some glass mannequin. He was strong and fast and skilled, and above all as smart as they came. He knew what he wanted and he knew how to do it, and it worried Mycroft something terrible because he couldn't be controlled if he didn't want to be.

For weeks he silently and carefully planned for his leave, packing a small satchel with the bare necessities. He wasn't planning to go live in luxury, he wanted to be able to fend for himself. Some money, a hanky, a knife and small book and pen in case he needed to write something down. He stole clothes from the servants' quarters and shed his coats and leathers.

That very night Sherlock sat down and wrote a small note to his brother, leaving it on his desk amidst piles of books and papers he long tired of.

The note was small and vague, but he knew Mycroft would understand anyway.

_Brother,_

_I shouldn't be gone for more than two seasons, if so I am enjoying myself._

_Let's pretend I have gone to distant relatives. I'll apologise when I return._

_Farewell_

_SH_

Sherlock vaguely left a warning in the letter, if one could read between the lines. He trusted Mycroft to understand him, and to know that he would be okay. He hoped Mycroft would not alert the guards in a search and let word spread that Prince Holmes had gone missing or the entire country would be keeping a special eye out, then he would never be able to roam about as he pleased. Mycroft could say he left to see distant family, and everyone would forget he existed for the while.

When sure he had everything he thought he would need, Sherlock fled his home. He hurried down the dark corridors, slinking past the night shift guards like a shadow in the night. His finger tips trailed the walls as he went, feeling them for one last time before he set foot outside. He sent a mental apology to Mycroft, but grinned soon after at the excitement bubbling inside him. No more duties, no more moaning Mycroft, no more expectations.

He noted to himself to berate the guards when he finally returned for not noticing him slinking around and eventually made it to a secret passage way in the library. His father had been the one to show it to him in his youth, and he kept it to himself. It wasn't as fascinating as one would hope, it led to a dank and cold corridor that trailed for at least 5 minutes before it lead out, but it was like a gateway to a paradise for Sherlock.

With his peasant clothes on, hair ruffled and over his face, and his satchel held close, Sherlock slipped through a small crack in the wall, settling the moss and vines back in place to keep it hidden. He crept around the wall and looked back at the palace surrounded by a mighty wall and its guards. The pathway led right out of the palace property, into a small broken down monument attached to a small abandoned house that lay behind the whole city. The only tricky part was that you could not come back this way, the trap door into the library did not open from the passageway. But it was fine, Sherlock would arrive back at the gates anyway.

He sighed out the crisp night air and turned away, ready to try something new...

If he'd known travelling by foot was so arduous Sherlock would have stolen more money from the vault. The first few days had been fine, he was pumped by the thrill of solo adventures and excitement, but a week later he was tired, utterly tired. His feet had blistered past what he thought was possible and dirt had crept into places he had always took extra care to keep clean.

For most of his walk he kept away from the roads and towns and travelled through the bare land, over hill tops and through meadows. He met maybe two people the entire time, but they were more interested in the maize they were plucking. The change of scenery was astounding, the silence was magnificent and he drank it all up, laughing and hollering loudly whenever he wanted, running down the hills and tumbling to a stop, out of breath and loving it.

Every evening he wondered if Mycroft had sent the army to search for him. It gave him an incentive to go faster and farther, further away from people and more into seclusion. He didn't plan to become a remote hermit, but the feeling of actually being physically and mentally free in the grassy lands was too good to leave.

But eventually he grew weary and longed to sleep in a proper bed and eat a cooked meal with salts and spices and maybe a shot of whiskey. His feet ached, his back ached, and he was sure his cheeks were sunburnt. Gradually he had slowed down and became focussed on finding people, having spent enough time exploring the wilderness.

God had to be smiling down on Sherlock. Merely two nights later he saw the sparkles of light in the distance between the trees, and sighed loudly in relief. With new vigour he headed towards them, watching his stepping and thinking of a nice warm bed. With the money he had he could afford a room for a while, maybe even one with its own bathroom; he needed a long soak.

As he grew closer, the feeling of being watched grew as well. It was odd, he hadn't had that feeling the entire time he had been wandering, and now suddenly he had eyes burning into his back. Though tired and achy, he wasn't about to go down without taking an attacker with him, and slyly grasped the knife in his satchel. He used his other senses to locate where and who was following him, and felt a small spike of adrenaline when he got confirmation that was more than a gut feeling.

Slowing down instead of speeding up Sherlock tried to catch his breath, and when he was close enough to the village to make a run for it he suddenly stopped and swirled and aimed the knife, catching the person unaware so that they stumbled slightly, too slow to jump into the shadows or attempt an attack.

Sherlock thrust the rather intimidating knife forward, glowering at the man who looked more surprised than could be faked. "Why are you following me? Who are you?" he boomed, standing at his tallest, back arched up straight.

Instead of drawing his own weapon, the man threw up his palms, keeping a few feet distance between them. He shifted his weight from side to side, waving his fingers lightly to show he was unarmed. "Whoa! It's okay! I'm not a rebel. See? I'm Greg, Greg Lestrade, head of Nottingham village. It's okay."

"Why were you following me?" Sherlock barked, ready to flick the knife and end the man should he pose a threat. He was skilled at combat and his senses were sharper than most, he was not afraid of anyone, but he was vigilant.

"Well, I wanted to know who was slinking around all secretly around my village. I got people to take care of." said Lestrade, slowly lowering his hands. He sounded honest enough, a little tired and weary, but not suspicious. "You an omega?"

Sherlock's metaphorical hackles bristled. "What's it to you?"

The man pulled his lips and shrugged, ignoring the knife. "Nothing to me, but it's not safe for you to just be walking out here alone, knife or not. We get many bad strangers wandering about."

A small breeze that rustled his hair reminded Sherlock he had been walking up wind, and without a proper bath or his usual colognes his scent must have trailed after him. He grimace inside, cursing his omega status, but kept a calm exterior that Lestrade interpreted as fear. "I can handle myself." he said, and lowered the blade, but kept it in his hand.

Lestrade nodded and waved out his hands. "Okay, I believe you. I just thought you needed help, maybe."

 _Lucky me_ , Sherlock thought. He dared a glance back at the village, turning back quickly to Lestrade who looked unsure of the situation. Sherlock didn't want to be labelled a criminal, or being spotted as the prince, so he sighed and dropped his shoulders in an exaggerated manner, and spoke with a pessimistic yet hopeful tone.

"...Is there boarding in your village?"

Lestrade lightened up. He looked easy to please. "Yeah, and work, if you need. More skills and hands are always helpful."

Sherlock pretended to debate with himself, lifting a foot with a wince that was real. "...Perhaps a warm bed tonight could be useful."

"Yeah? Follow me, it's getting dark."

Sherlock accepted the invitation and put away the knife in an obvious manner, allowing a mutual agreement between them. They shook hands as they began walking together, and Sherlock wondered to himself how the man would react if he knew this was the prince of England he had wandered upon.

"So, you can call me Lestrade. And you are?" the man asked curiously, as well as cautiously.

Sherlock had to hold back his smile before answering. "Sherlock...Doyle. Sherlock Doyle." It took him a while to choose a false surname he liked, and even this one he was on two minds. The name Sherlock wasn't completely unique, many woman had named their sons after both Sherlock and Mycroft back in the day when the original King and Queen were still alive.

Also, he liked his name too much to part with it. Deal with it.

The man seemed to take his word for it. "Doyle, huh? We haven't got any of those around."

Sherlock couldn't have cared less, and instead gave the man a tight look. "Beta?" he guessed, refusing to sniff the man. By now Sherlock had little doubt he was a normal, hard-working man deeply set in routine. Usually alphas had the luxury of default leadership, he wondered what made this town, and this man, different.

Lestrade shrugged, looking neither pleased nor upset. "Yeah. I'm a nice guy, you don't have to keep looking at me like that, Sherlock.

Again Sherlock feigned a little, and gave a shrug of his own. "Better safe than sorry."

"We can't all be the same status-wise, then how would the world work?" Lestrade said, as if attempting to brighten the mood.

Sherlock sighed, sounding more bored than he actually was. "As it always does. Dully."

The sun had already gone down and everyone was inside their homes. They met a few people on the way through. Lestrade greeted them all, giving his usual 'goodnight' and 'be careful' reminders. The people didn't seem to really notice Sherlock, they seemed to be preoccupied. He liked it that way, and kept his head down.

Apparently they were on their way to dinner, Sherlock wondered how Lestrade's family would take to him, or if they'd allow him in at all. Truthfully he'd be pitied on, being a stray omega, which is what Lestrade had done, but he was still a strange man coming from the woods at night.

They headed up to a quaint little house behind a few lanes, the one closest to the woodland on the north side. There was light inside and one of the most delicious aromas wafting through the open windows. Sherlock swallowed and followed quietly.

As predicted, Lestrade didn't knock upon entering the door and strode straight in, knocking afterwards for the sake of it. He shut the door behind Sherlock and gestured for him to follow towards the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm back!" he called. Sherlock frowned at the back of his head, and wondered if that was how commoners addressed their spouses.

In the kitchen rushed about a small old lady. She was well dressed, clean shoes and some pretty jewellery. Her hair looked like she had just done it, and Sherlock guessed she had, judging by the hair-brush on the counter nearby the door.

She turned towards them, wiping her hands on a cloth as she stepped away from the small table that was filled with bowls of food. Sherlock struggled to look at her instead of the food. For the first time in his life he was truly hungry and not just peckish.

"Oh, lovely! I was about to start without you, I'm famished." the woman said, smiling cheerfully.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson. But next time you should. You shouldn't wait if you're hungry, sometimes I get into situations, like tonight." Lestrade said, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder as his proof.

The woman gave a curious smile. "Hello dear."

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Doyle." Sherlock said, extending a hand in a gentlemanly fashion. She 'ooh'ed pleasantly and shook his hand, but quickly wiped her hands clean afterwards for he was indeed filthy.

This couldn't be the man's wife, nor his mother, so Sherlock settled on simple friends.

"Sherlock? Well, there's a fancy name. Oh, look at you, frozen stiff. Is he joining us for dinner, Greg?"

"Yes, if you don't mind. I found him wandering just on the boarder during my regular rounds."

"Oh, poor thing. Come sit down, both of you." she ushered them to the table, and pushily handed them both a wet rag to wipe their hands with. Sherlock did so gladly and made sure to wipe his face, putting his satchel on his lap, ready to flip the table and run should he need to. _Should he need to_ , but he wasn't getting that vibe from them. Lestrade looked as tired as he felt and Mrs. Hudson was fussing over the food rather than the stranger at her table.

Small talk continued between Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock quickly relaxed, enjoying the meaningless talk for once and relishing the warmth of the house. His mouth watered as he watched the woman dish onto their plates what he guessed was the main course; food had never looked so appealing.

Suddenly Lestrade seemed to remember he was there, and cleared his throat to break the ice. "So, where are you from, Sherlock?"

"Beverley." he answered instantly, staring transfixed at the potatoes lathered in a creamy sauce.

"Oh, I have family there! Lovely people, very hot summers though." Mrs. Hudson said as she sat down, smiling at Sherlock in a way he guessed was to make him feel comfortable. Lestrade nodded too, but Sherlock could see from his face he knew nothing of the place. He appreciated the gesture anyway, and smiled tightly.

"Yes, you can't quite wash enough in one day."

"It makes you want to hop and skip around naked! But a woman my age, goodness no." Mrs. Hudson laughed softly, lifting her cutlery. The men did the same, and they began to eat.

Lestrade lifted the main object of Sherlock's attentions and passed it to him. "Potatoes, Sherlock?"

"Yes, please."

"Beans?" Mrs. Hudson offered from the side.

"Please." he took his bit and passed it back, reminding himself not to dig in like a pig. He was tempted to, it might be good for his image, but decided against it. That behaviour he could use in a bar to disgust anyone who might be out to interfere with him.

Mrs. Hudson made a noise and looked up with big eyes. "Oh, Greg, I forgot the wine!"

"No, trouble, I'll get it."

Sherlock watched Lestrade jump up like a puppy, and gave Mrs. Hudson a sideways glance. "This seems a little fancy for a commoner's dinner."

"Don't be fooled, we only do this one a month." Lestrade said as he slipped back into his seat, popping the wine bottle with an expert grip. "The whole village, it's like a reward for all the hard work."

"Like a tradition." Sherlock noted.

"Yeah! We don't have a name for it, but we feast like kings. Then work hard and save up the coins for the next feast. There is a small party in town too for the younger folk, if you like that sort'a thing. No disorderly behaviour though, we don't tolerate it. We're an equal society."

The warning was clear enough. Sherlock smiled. "Duly noted. But it's not my thing."

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand at Lestrade, leaning a sweet expression Sherlock's way. "Don't be put off, dear. Greg is just very protective of us. Which is a good thing because if he doesn't look out for us then who will? Here's more mutton, a man your size needs more..." she trailed off by forking a few more pieces of meat onto Lestrade's plate. She reminded Sherlock of his late mother, the most annoyingly caring woman he had ever known.

"Thank you."

Chewing with all his manners intact, Sherlock took a moment to actually taste the food he was scarfing down, and felt his eyes flutter. "This is actually delicious." he said around mouthfuls.

Lestrade laughed. "What were you expecting?"

"Nothing quite as good as this." he said, honestly. "Everywhere I've stopped prior the food has been horrendous. This however is incredibly delicious."

They bought the lie without a seconds hesitance. Mrs. Hudson jumped to the rescue of course, lifting the bowl of salad. "Oh well no wonder you are lanky, Sherlock. Here-"

"No it's-"

"I insist! You maybe be an omega, but all the more reason to fatten up!"

Sherlock stiffened in his seat, but only Lestrade noticed. "I don't think he's the settling down type." this time he came to the rescue, smiling apologetically at Sherlock. The under-cover prince spared a twitch of a smile his way and cleared his throat, trying not to take it personally. He was a commoner now, these people could ask about his sex life without a care in the world, they didn't know who they were talking to.

"Definitely not. I'm far too young. Work is what I should have." he replied, smiling falsely at the pair.

"Still a good reason to fatten up." Mrs. Hudson insisted, dropping the subject faster than Sherlock thought she would. He didn't feel intimidated by these two, there were no alarms ringing in his head, but that was probably because of his combat skills. The only people that ever made him feel intimidated were alphas but that was purely instinct, he'd still knock them over once he squashed the stupid primal hinder.

"So, what work will you be looking for? I know everyone, I can see what is available for you." Lestrade offered kindly.

"Oh, erm...nothing too strenuous, I'm not that good with hard labour. But I can't be fussy either, times are hard."

"What are you good at? We don't want you injuring yourself."

Sherlock faked a unsure expression, shrugging humbly. "Ah, bit of this, bit of that. I am not a people person, but I can do anything assigned to. All a matter of knowing how it works." He didn't want to break his back working, but he couldn't lie about all day without gaining attention, and running out of money.

"Collecting maize? Carpentry? Gardening?"

"Ooh, I like gardening."

Mrs. Hudson gasped. "I love gardens! Such hard work to keep them going though, you look away for a few days and when you go back it's all withered! It was simple when I was younger, but now with my hip and all..."

"That sounds awful. How long as Mr. Hudson been dead?" Sherlock asked, holding back a smirk as two pairs of surprised eyes lifted to him. It hadn't been hard to guess. Old photo frames were all along the way to the kitchen with a young couple that Sherlock linked was this woman and a spouse. But the glass was collected with dust and neglect. The house had too many personal touches to have been made that way and there was no way Mrs. Hudson had done it. She dressed with the independence of a single woman but no single woman could afford the things she did. She fussed over them with a practised hand and her ring finger was without a ring, a very light marking around it from years of marriage.

There was usually a chance that he was missing a few details, but after the shock wore of the woman shrugged with acknowledgement. "A long time now. But I prefer it on my own. Well not all on my own. Dear Greg here is like a son." Lestrade blushed beneath his facial hair. Sherlock chuckled.

"It's always a pleasure." Lestrade said, patting her hand across the table around pouring the wine.

Sherlock felt a little out of place, but kept it from showing on his face and hid it by lifting his glass for a drink. "But you live alone? That must be lonely."

"Oh not at all. I have many friends. But the work does pile up, it's so costly to hire."

"Oh? That's not right at all. A delicate woman your age should always have someone nearby."

"I am a beta dear, I am not a butterfly." Mrs. Hudson said, more firmly than Sherlock thought possible. It showed on his face, to his chagrin, and Lestrade laughed.

"Mrs. Hudson is tougher than she looks."

Sherlock gave in with an apologetic chuckle, "Oh, no doubt."

Patting the sides of her mouth, Mrs. Hudson raised a fine brow at him. "But if you are volunteering, I have space for a boarder."

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, sprinkling on the surprise.

Mrs. Hudson snuck a guilty look at Lestrade. "Perhaps I could steal you before anyone else? It's an awful dread to fetch the firework everyday."

Lestrade laughed, as if relieved. "That is a great idea! What do you think Sherlock? You can work here, do all the odd jobs for Mrs. Hudson. I can imagine there won't be anything too strenuous."

"I have a nice room and three good meals a day if you're interested. There isn't much pay but at least you are guaranteed to be warm and fed."

"It's a start." Lestrade added.

A dingy inn or a cosy home, Sherlock almost didn't know which to choose. Though he thrived on his alone time he supposed this was the best place he could get. She certainly lived here alone so there wouldn't be dozens of people to hover over him, and indeed the work couldn't be too hard from one little old lady. He wondered if Lestrade lived here too, but the man had shown no negative behaviour in the least, so even if he did both people were a green light for him. He would also save coins if she would provide both food and lodgings, and if this was how she cooked, Sherlock couldn't bear to try the slap-dash food at an inn.

"Actually, that sounds fantastic, thank you so much."

Mrs. Hudson looked chuffed and reached over to pat his shoulder. "I have a soft spot for omegas."

Lestrade chuckled, sipping his wine. "Mrs. Hudson you have a soft spot for everyone."

Biting down the omega comment Sherlock smiled, as genuine as it was false. He could have been very alone here, in a bad way, but he was lucky to have met these two people. "Nevertheless, this is very kind of you. Very kind of you both."

"Don't make me regret it now. I'm trusting you." Mrs. Hudson said around her glass as she downed it whole.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "I am no threat. I just seek a start in life. This is the best dinner I have had in months! Did you cook it yourself?" he quickly averted the topic, already catching onto the woman and how to handle her.

"Yes, all day I stood for this so I want to see clean plates, boys."

Lestrade snorted light-heartedly, and popped a chunk of cheese covered cauliflower into his mouth. "You don't have to tell me twice."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I love Mrs. Hudson. I like Lestrade. I'm scared I've ruined Shelrock. Jawn help


	2. Invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is hard to write for. How do people do it
> 
> How does Moffat do it

**Chapter 2:Invasion**

Living with Mrs. Hudson had been a better life than Sherlock had prepared himself for. The woman was wealthier than most and treated him like a son instead of a worker. He had prepared himself for being worked to the bone, sleeping in a hard bed and enduring a violent and erratic surrounding, but what he got was birds chirping, cheerful neighbours and Mrs. Hudson all but brushing his hair. It occurred to him to leave, but the hospitality was a little too relaxing.

While he didn't fancy the work of a commoner when he could be using his brain, he took it in his stride, keeping count of the days until he would have to return home. The fresh air was a delight to breathe each morning. It was almost pleasure going to fish, chopping wood, spy on the villagers, accompanying his new mother to town for groceries and coming back to fix household problems. He did however once refuse to kill the huge rat that made a home in the kitchen and bit Mrs. Hudson on the toe, and dragged in Lestrade to do it instead.

He marvelled Mrs. Hudson at dinner time with wild stories of his adventures, which conveniently came straight out of the books lining the royal library, and sprinkled them with his own flavour. If she caught onto his bluffing she never said, and humoured him with questions and praise.

At first the town's folk were weary of him and he expected them to be. If they accepted him without a glare or two he would have called them idiots. Everyone in the town was nice in general, besides a few men and a woman named Donovan. Lestrade kept a good eye on him for a few reasons, as well as those that showed negativity towards him, and if Mrs. Hudson did the same he couldn't tell around her oblivious attitude.

One of the best things about his time in Nottingham was that news of England was far and few in-between. The villagers didn't seem to care, more focused on their own lives than that of the royals in wealthy old England. He was glad for it, he didn't need a reminder of his brother who was probably now more angry than worried.

But the worst thing about his time in Nottingham had to be the duration of his rut. Having been a royal he had the luxury of hormone suppressants to get rid of the strong influence to mate. Since he started puberty he had taken the suppressants, never missing it and never desiring to lose his control like so many of the commoners did when their rut or heat came around. Because he was the prince he had servants to remind him to take his suppressants, and he preferred it that way. So this time when his rut came, he hid in his room for the first day, the whole day, dunked in the bath full of cold water. He chose to leave behind his suppressants as a challenge- he could triumph anything.

Mrs. Hudson had gotten a fright at his odd behaviour, which was barely a month after his arrival, and ran to get Lestrade. To all their embarrassments the man had knocked in the door, afraid Sherlock had accidentally hurt himself, and found a trembling and panting Sherlock huddled in the bath, his knees to his chest, his hair clinging to the side of his flushed face. Lestrade had prompted hurried out, blurting apologies, for walking in on a naked omega male was the equivalent to walking in on any naked female.

Sherlock was far too bothered with trying to control his embarrassing panting to saying anything, or chase out Mrs. Hudson who began to fuss over him when Lestrade called to her that Sherlock was in a rut. The elder woman hurried out too, and Sherlock vaguely noted that the door was still open, but if he left the cold of the tub he'd be rubbing and grinding on the walls and dare he think it, the nearest warm body. The cold of the water shocked his system into a more sober state and counteracted the heat rising from his core. It kept his body locked in position, his muscles clenched, which was just what he needed to reframe from splashing out like a drowned cat and going out to attract a Tom.

He knew this would happen, his body and mind would be a frazzled mess for his first time experiencing rut without suppressants since he was much younger, so as soon as he recognised the signs he dashed into motion with his plan to control it. And he had been happy with the results, he managed to sit in that one spot for hours, focusing his every thought on evaluating his body and what it was doing. The burning heat within him was most annoying, his cheeks were on fire and his manhood was constantly erected thanks to being sandwiched between his thighs and stomach. He thought the cold water would have worked to keep erections away but after so many years of suppressing his rut it was flaring for all the time lost. Though the cold couldn't stem his erection it did stem the heat inside him and thus his sexual desire, which was the main culprit.

After what seemed like hours to him, but were actually two minutes, Mrs. Hudson hurried back in with a handful of something he couldn't focus enough to recognise. He squeezed his legs tighter to his chest and dropped his head to his knees. In the back of his mind he knew he would have to face these two once he calmed down, but it would be easier with less embarrassment, so he made sure nothing but his outer body was exposed. He didn't fancy flashing his penis to either Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson.

Above him Mrs. Hudson babbled on about something but he blocked her out, hearing Lestrade from the door way. He flinched when she dunked her hands in the water on either side of him, swishing the water around, and soon enough he caught the sharp smell of bath salts. They stun his nose but he held still, and eventually the voices died away, and then they were gone. He didn't know when they left, or how long he had been sitting in the bath, but only when he started to shake from the cold and hunger did he realise he had missed a whole day.

The room stank of bath salts and so did he. His skin was soft and pruned and he felt as if he had swum in an ocean for miles. It took him another hour to climb out the tub, confirm to himself that he was still sane and not about to creep out the house naked, and leave the bathroom to stumble into his room for night clothes, keeping track of everything his body did, ready to counter it if he needed. He would not lose control. No no nope. The hallway smelt lightly of Lestrade but before his body could even _think_ in that direction he threw himself into his room, ripped on some form of clothing and dove into the blankets where he was forced to inhaled the scent of the bath salts soaked into his skin.

The following day Mrs. Hudson had come up with breakfast, knocking and calling until he was awake before entering. She was gracious and handled him just the way a mother would, making him embarrassed but as comfortable as possible at the same time. The woman had earned his trust, more than once he realised she did not tell Lestrade the things he told her, and he appreciated that privacy. She excused him from his duties until he felt fit enough for them, and insisted he stay in his room as much as he wanted. The bath salts she provided were a very mild form of suppressants, working to sooth his body and put him to sleep so that he didn't struggle through the night with a flaring erection and bout of energy. Of course though, he handled the rut another way, as suggested by a stuttering Lestrade. Masturbation was something he rarely did, but now that he was constantly becoming aroused he found the pleasure in it, even if it was sort lived and shallow, it sated him for those few hours.

Within a few days he had mastered his control over the effects of the rut and forced himself back into work, testing his limits and further studying the rut effect. It wasn't impossible to handle, he just had to keep hydrated, focused, and avoid close proximity with other men. Lestrade didn't seem to be affected by him, which he was relieved for, and after that obstacle was won Sherlock felt proud of himself. He continued triumphantly, acting as if the rut wasn't there, forgetting he was a long way from home, and savouring each day of independence. Well, almost independence, Mrs. Hudson had all but adopted him.

The weeks turned into months and before he knew it he had been gone for six months. He had survived as a commoner with minimal complaints and conquered new obstacles. He felt proud of himself, he felt happy, and he was for the most part content. But slowly the days grew closer and he knew he would have to return home from his 'trip' to family members...but he would worry about that after his current heat, he wouldn't travel during it.

Barging in like he owned the very land, Sherlock hurried through the kitchen door, a bag of fresh meats over his shoulder and a handful of new cutting knives in the other hand. Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a smile and made to close the door for him as usual. With her hand on the door she stopped, and squinted out.

"Who is that? Sherlock, you felt someone outside."

"They're not mine."

Mrs. Hudson squinted harder, looking back at Sherlock who was emptying out the meat on the counters, pointedly hunching his back away from her direction. "Oh dear, is it that time already? I must get you more of those bath salts. Goodness, look at him hovering, I am going to have to beat them off with a stick."

Sherlock's mouth twisted in distaste, grabbing the cleaver and bringing it down with a loud _BANG_ to severe the chunk of lamb with more force than was necessary. "I cannot fathom why they'd pursue me with so many young women around."

The elderly woman jumped, but closed the door and covered the glass with its curtains. "Sherlock, honey, have you looked in a mirror?"

"Of course, even more reason why I cannot understand them." He was not a woman, he was not a woman, he was not a woman. And he did not once give anyone the impression he was available either. There was an abundance of women and he didn't hover in public during his rut enough to cause attention, the idiots were forcing it like he would be impressed.

"Well, you _are_ the new omega in town, they must be curious. Last season you avoided everyone too."

"I repeat, there are women all over." _BANG_

"Don't take it as an insult-" Mrs. Hudson stepped besides him, trying to look into his face, but he startled her away with another shot of the knife, slicing the meat with precision despite his irritable mood.

"I _will_ take it as an insult. Do you know what they are thinking when- ...I won't even bother, it can't even be classified as authentic _thought_."

Giving way, the woman threw her hands up and walked away to tend to the dishes before preparing supper. "Well, when are you going to settle down-?"

Sherlock swirled, ready to bitch until he proved religion wrong, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have it. "I-"

"I did not say with a man or a woman. And I am the last one to pressure you to have a man friend. I just worry about you being alone. I know you are capable on your own dear, I just hate thinking of you growing old alone. Even a close friend would do you good."

He didn't want that pity, he could grow old alone, it was no bother to him, and he could certainly go without a love interest. He would not be forced into such a thing, it was beyond his understanding. If such a thing was meant to happen then it would happen, he would _not_ go out searching for it like that was the only meaning to life. He was well aware of his antisocial behaviour most of the time, but he'd hoped no one would have cared. "That is all very kind of your Mrs. Hudson but I'll live."

"Very well. I'll start dinner, you go wash up."

Sherlock nodded, happy for the reprieve and dropped his task, hurrying off upstairs. "Don't forget the gravy waiting!" he called, pointing at the last minute where said gravy was about to boil over.

Mrs. Hudson had on her groves already. "Way ahead of you dear."

That evening, after a glorious bath and meditation Sherlock joined Mrs. Hudson for dinner. It was the Saturday of every month where they dined as kings. It was truthfully nothing compared to the real royal dinners, but Sherlock kept it to himself. There was no reason to upset the cook when he had no real complaint.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. As usual you are an artist." he said as they settled, lifting their forks and pouring wine around the many small dishes.

The woman looked content as usual, but gave a small sigh and shrugged, glancing at the empty seat besides them. "It's a pity Greg couldn't make it, but I hope he woos that lady friend, Lord knows he has been trying for too long."

Sherlock made a noise under his breath, pulling his fork away just as he was about to pop a juicy chunk of steak into his mouth. His face twisted and he pressed a finger to his left temple, recalling all the moronic tales of failure Lestrade would tell them every get together. The _Allusive Beauty_ , he called her. Sherlock preferred to call her Lady King. "She is an alpha," he said, exasperated. "He is never going to impress her by treating her like a delicate piece of china. She wants all or nothing."

"I think she is a bit up tight. But mind you she has been the breadwinner since she was fifteen. You can't blame her for being defensive; maybe she wants an alpha, not a beta."

"No, that would be a disaster. She needs someone that will accept her and be patient, but not wait on her like a love-sick pup. There would be bloodshed if you stuck her with an alpha."

Sherlock didn't realise how much it sounded like he was talking about himself. Mrs Hudson held back a small smile. "Not all alphas are controlling or demanding." she reminded, despite thinking back to her past.

Sherlock snorted. "You'd be surprised."

The woman was used to Sherlock's mind-set by now and shrugged off the topic. "Are you feeling any better? You were flushed earlier when you came back."

"Running is all." he muttered, sniffing away the humiliation of rut. He had been speed walking anyway.

"I'm sure. How is the gravy?"

"I can't think of a single thing that could make it better."

"That's sweet of you."

"Not sweet, just honest."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson having more wine than usual. After a moment she hummed loudly in thought, and tipped her glass his way. "Have you heard about the Westhrow's drama with King Holmes? It's all over town."

Sherlock stiffened. Immediately his cool mask dropped and a tight frown settling in its place. "No, and I don't want to." he said, and took a large gulp of his own wine.

But she continued anyway, moving her food around as she spoke. "It's not sounding good. They say King Mycroft is hiding lots of dark secrets from his people. I suppose we're lucky out here. Not that we have a proper kingdom, but at least it's peaceful, if I may. No nonsense and drama banging on your door everyday. Who wants a life of fighting? All it does is turn sweet children into monsters and makes everyone bitter. Why don't the royals ever fix these problems? And just who is running..." Slightly slumped in his seat, Sherlock tuned her out, hearing her voice in the background but not listening to her words. For the next while she babbled on and on about politics until she was left with only wine, her cheeks pink with merry and her topics off course.

When he could finally get a word in he sighed loudly and pushed his plate away, already thinking of jumping straight into bed. "...Supper was superb, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, thank you dear. And thank you for being such a good help. And when I say good, I mean it. Three years back I took in an omega from Russell and before I knew it she had babies, and a third on the way! I ended up being her nanny! Didn't know a thing about babies, poor soul."

Yes, bed was in order. "Sounds needy." Sherlock all but cursed, gaining a look from his employer. Before it could settle in her mind he jumped up with a bright albeit fake smile and patted his stomach. "Well, goodnight!"

The woman nodded with another sip of her wine, waving him off. "Put on those woolies I made for you! Tonight is going to be cold!"

"Yes, mother."

That night Sherlock lay restless. He was tired, the effects of his body's constant prompting to procreate and the soothing bath salts from Mrs. Hudson made it easy to drift off to sleep, but not keep him asleep. He felt irritable as well. He was irritable at his body for being so needy, he was irritable at himself for feeling just slightly homesick, and he was irritable at his conscious for reminding him he had to return home. It was echoing in the back of his mind, disrupting his sleep and making him toss and turn. If there was trouble from the Westhrow rebels perhaps he should return home sooner than later, he was always Mycroft's best planner in such affairs.

But perhaps this night wasn't the best to be sleeping deeply, and with a terrifying shake Sherlock awoke to a distant _BANG_. The whole room seemed to have jolted, but in his sleepy state he couldn't tell, and fumbled out of bed clumsily. He went straight to the window and glared through the glass. He expected to see a group of drunkards playing with gun powder, maybe a fatality, but he saw something that shocked him out of his doze. Within a second he spun away from the window and slammed up against the wall besides it.

It was a military visit. Or was it an attack? Sherlock knew a military coup when he saw one. It had to be past midnight by now. Men were filing through the roads from the south side of the surrounding woodland. They had rifles and marched in a silent order, obviously to remain undetected, but then what on earth was that-

 _ **BANG**_! Again the room shook and Sherlock squashed himself against the wall, his mind buzzing stronger than his heart. It sounded like grenades. The very first thing he thought of was why an army would be raiding through the small town of Nottingham. They had nothing, they were self sufficient and secluded, what could the army get from them? The second question was who did the army belong to? It did not look like England's men, Sherlock would have recognised them, and maybe then it would have made sense, Mycroft found out where he was and had sent the army to collect him. Also England did not raid little towns in the dead of night, they were civil, so who was doing this?

Merely seconds later the gun shots began. Screams followed and Mrs. Hudson jumped into his mind. The old woman wouldn't stand a chance in war, nor could she run very far in the freezing cold of the night.

Another set of loud banging echoed through the house, but this time they were different, and Sherlock recognised them as banging on the door. They were angry and frantic, that of a fist and a man desperate to enter. A solider wouldn't knock at all if their intentions were malevolent, but opening the door at night was not something anyone did.

The knocking continued and Sherlock grimaced. The noise would surely attract the invaders if it wasn't them, and to top it off he heard Mrs. Hudson's creaky door open. A stinging rush of panic shot through his chest and he pushed off the wall, swinging open the door and darting off into the corridor. Mrs. Hudson turned in time to squint at him in the dark, holding her nighty close, more in comfort than against the cold, Sherlock knew all her faces.

"Sherlock someone is at the door!" she cried, still very much drowsy, her hair standing. She made a noise of protest as Sherlock rushed past her. He stuck a hand out to her, pushing her back as gentle as he could in his transforming state.

"Stay here!"

"But Sherlock-"

"I said STAY HERE!"

There was no time for manners; she'd die if she was seen. He skipped three steps at a time and skidded through the living room, grabbing the pitch fork on the way from the fireplace and ducking up besides the front door. The banging on the door was almost frightening, the entire frame jerked forward with every contact.

"MRS. HUDSON! SHERLOCK!"

It was Lestrade. Sherlock hurried to open the door, and in came Lestrade, falling over his own feet. The sound of war filled the entrance and it reminded Sherlock of the time he ran a test drill with the army. He had been sixteen, he wanted to have all the skills of the army, and so joined the program. He had hoped he'd never truly have to use it, but he was glad he had done it.

The two men slammed the door shut and fell back against it. Sherlock shimmied to the side, away from the glass and fragile wood, wanting to warn Lestrade that they would shoot through the barrier if they saw them, but there was no time for words.

"What is happening?!" he breathed out instead, wishing Lestrade would catch his breath quicker so he could share possible useful information.

"We're under attack!" the man panted, his face looking more drawn than ever. There was a wild look in his eyes. Sherlock wondered what he had seen.

"By _whom_?" he asked.

"I don't know, but they were everywhere, we need to get Mrs. Hudson!" Just as Lestrade took a breath the woman came hurrying down the stairs as fast as her knees would allow. Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief and rushed to embrace her, hushing her confused questions and promising her they were going to leave at any moment.

Squinting through a crack in the door, Sherlock felt the likeness of a heart attack seize up his chest. He made a noise in the back of his throat and gripped the iron rod tighter, staring at the emblem of one of his family's worst enemies. The more he looked the more men carried the symbol. On their helmets, on their jackets, on their whole demeanour.

This couldn't have gotten worse. His heart took off and threatened to expose him from the sound of the beating alone. Why were they here? It had to be because of him, there was no other reason. This town was nothing, but he was the Prince of England, and his head was worth more than the entire village. They'd kill everyone to find him. And when they did, they'd probably still kill everyone after taking him away so there'd be no one to alert England. How ironic for Mrs. Hudson to mention Westhrow the very night they attack, he wished he had listened to her at dinner.

"No...no, no Mrs. Hudson stay inside!" he ordered, and turned to hurry into the kitchen.

Lestrade rushed after him with Mrs. Hudson, both full of fright and looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Are you mad? We have to-!"

"This is Westhrow's army. We won't survive if we run out like panicked animals. They never attack in small numbers and their only focus is people. Mrs. Hudson you have to stay here."

"But-"

"Come, now, come!" Sherlock had dropped the rod in the kitchen and picked up the lantern. Lighting it as he hurried away into the living room, he cursed under his breath before it finally lit, and dropped to the floor where he pushed away the carpet. The crease of the cellar door was difficult to find but his lean fingers caught grip and he heaved, finally remembering he was still in rut, and his body wasn't as durable as it would usually be.

It was a fleeting thought and he removed it from his thoughts, opening the trap door and locating the stairs' angle with the help of the light. He dipped it down into the cellar so that the light couldn't be seen from outside, and held out a hand to Mrs. Hudson.

"You have to stay down there, if they come in do not make a sound. They work swiftly, not thoroughly."

Lestrade looked like he had a million things to say about it, but Sherlock persisted, grabbing her wrist anyway and pulling her down "But Sherlock, aren't you-?"

"No, I will fight." he said shortly, wondering just how he would manage it in pajamas and with his body softening for rut. He couldn't hide like a coward, could he? While the town was murdered? No, he would take the opportunity to eliminate some Westhrow pigs.

Mrs. Hudson squeaked, and with surprising strength pulled away from him. He glared up, but it fell as quickly as the tears in her eyes. "NO, no, no, you are coming with me!"

She was scared, she was helpless, and she was attached, Sherlock had to understand. He spared her a sad look, hoping she would also understand, and shook his head, waving his hand. "No time, get in."

"But Sher-!"

" _NOW_!"

Lestrade winced as Mrs. Hudson sobbed, feeling confused and helpless as Sherlock ushered her down into the basement. Sherlock hopped in with her and made sure she went down the whole way, holding out the lantern from the steps. She begged him to stay, she pleaded, she cried. But he couldn't.

The prince climbed out, his face stoic as he shut the door and kicked the carpet back over it as if Mrs Hudson hadn't been there in the first place..

Lestrade shifted, tried of waiting for Sherlock to speak. "Fight? How do we fight an army? My people are dying out there!"

But Sherlock ignored him and ran back to the kitchen, ripping open cupboard doors until he found a large carry keg. He grunted under its weight and lifted it, pulling off the lid and to Lestrade's disgust, sloshed what looked like blood a few feet from him. It splattered over the floor and onto their feet. Lestrade looked at Sherlock like he had truly gone insane, but followed the man as he ran back to the living room.

Swinging the barrel, Sherlock splashed the thick red liquid around, coating the floor and walls. Lestrade cringed at the thought of Mrs. Hudson seeing it all over her precious home, then gaped when Sherlock began kicking over the furniture. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"If they come in here they'll think it's already been searched. Pig's blood," Sherlock panted, hiding the keg beneath the mess he was making. He toppled the cupboards, kicked over the flower pots, but kept any heavy objects away from the hidden cellar door. "Mrs Hudson will be safe. Here-" Sherlock flipped over the bookcase, pulling a face as it crashed into the coffee table. Lestrade's eyes widened like saucers at the two rifles hanging on the back of the wood. He barely caught the one when Sherlock tossed it to him.

Sherlock cocked his own, freaking out Lestrade with his practised and calm demeanour. The room looked like a tornado had shot through it, and Sherlock was standing in his night clothes, fixing the settings to a rifle that Lestrade could never have imagined him with.

Ignoring the obvious questions on Lestrade's face Sherlock headed to the back door, pulling Lestrade none too gently with him. "Take down as many as you can while edging out towards the boarder. We can return in two days or so, they don't hover either."

"And just how the bloody hell do you know all this? _Who are you_?!" Lestrade hissed, jumping as the gun shots neared. "Shit!"

Death was close, Sherlock knew the possibility of dying in a war was high, prince or not. Perhaps especially seeing as he was a prince he would be targeted, but did the army know who he was? Was that their conquest? Or was he simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

"If I die by their hands it will be standing like a man." he said, serious and calm. He was going to say prince or king, but the less people that knew who he was the better. He stared through the wood as if it was glass, and Lestrade felt a lift of courage off Sherlock.

"...Let's go." he agreed, and opened the door to the chaos outside.

Immediately they were confronted. Soldiers were heading straight towards the house and for a moment Lestrade froze, gripped the gun as tightly as he could, but eyes set on the opponent's weapons. Three men were marching towards them, guns raised at the sight of their own, but Sherlock was faster. He knocked Lestrade over a mere second before shooting with as much accuracy as he could, ducking in time to save his own head. He took down two men, and thankfully the fall and gun shots broke Lestrade from his stupor and he shot the third.

"Come on, we have to stick in the shadows!" Sherlock said, pulling up Lestrade. They hurried to the next house and crept around the walls, rifles aimed towards the sky and fingers on the trigger.

Sherlock could feel his knees buckling as his body pulsed into battle mode. The last time he had felt such strong adrenaline was at least two years ago, and never had he experienced it during rut. His body was begging him to collapse and hide, save whatever energy it had for escaping, but he was not going to give in to such a submissive urge. He would fight until he was taken down.

Lestrade seemed a little better now, and took aim before shooting twice from their spot. A woman screamed as her attacker dropped, and Lestrade waved an arm as she looked around in fright, "Run! Go, run!"

"We should split up." Sherlock said, sliding down a few inches against the wall as a solider came around his corner. The man didn't see them in the dark and dropped a second later, Sherlock pulling back his rifle and looking away from the body.

"Split up? We need all the help we can get, we can't split up!"

"We can't both sneak around the same paths without being seen!"

Heavy foot steps coming from Sherlock's side of the house cut their banter short. They looked at one another before running off Lestrade's way, unfortunately straight into battle.

There were people everywhere. Lestrade's bravery almost cracked at the sight of his friends scattering like terrified animals, screams and gun shots ripping through the night air. Men, women, children, everyone was running. The smell of fear and gun powder was ripe in the air, stinging at every turn.

No direction was safe. No one was safe. It was chaos. Sherlock looked at Lestrade, ready to bark orders to keep the man on his feet and prepared, but he found a calm look on his face, and received a pat to his shoulder. Sherlock couldn't hear much over the chaos around them, but lip read 'good luck', and watched as the leader of their little town ran off to help his people.

He mentally wished safety to follow Lestrade and turned to fight his own battles. So far no one had taken special interest in him nor did he hear any callings of his name, so whether or not they were here for him was still a mystery. But why else would the enemy invade a small land like this?

It took a great deal of self-scolding and control to fend off the panic. A rutting fighter was no good on the battle field, it was too easily to get distracted by primal urges and the body's haywire-function. He didn't want to lose the battle because of his rut, how humiliating would that be? Already he was shaking and feeling weak, any strenuous activity on a rutting omega brought them to this state and it was not good on the battle field. In bed it was fine because they could lay back and rest, be protected and helped, but if he lost control and fell because of his natural urge to save as much energy as he could then he'd be in grave trouble.

It was no time to fall, he couldn't. He would not be slain like a pig whilst giving in to his traitorous body. He would fight and defend himself and the people, he was their best fighter in any case, only they didn't know it.

Clad in his night clothes he began his ascent to a hopeful victory. He was fast and skilled, slipping into the shadows after firing and hurrying into the next spot before his own was invaded. A few times lead to a physical confrontation but he made do with the element of surprise, catching the men off guard when they thought they had the upper hand. He tried his best to keep his face from attention, and still there was no sign that he was who they were raiding for. In fact, it seemed less and less likely as the time wore on.

Towards the town square was the real battle. The town's men had gathered with as many weapons as they could find and fought the soldiers, but it was stupid and amateurish, Sherlock wished he had mentioned to Lestrade a proper technique of defence in this situation.

He ran in a crouch along one of the last houses, staring at his next target, but a piercing scream from the house caught him before he could jump out. It sounded like a child, and despite his reasoning to eliminate the enemy before tending to the wounded he peek up through the window, cursing himself for Lestrade's concern rubbing off onto him, but jumped when he caught site of a young girl being held down by a solider. He swore loudly and climbed up into the window with the agility of a cat.

The solider had his back hunched and away from him, preoccupied by the struggling person beneath him. Sherlock's swift entrance went unheard over the wailing of the child and he swung the handle of the rifle, catching the man at the temple. Instantly he fell over like dead weight to the floor and the girl scrambled away, seemingly unharmed, and ran around the chair to grab Sherlock's arm.

"No, go upstairs and hide. Get into the smallest place you can find and stay in here!" he said, already pushing her along. He knew the girl, she was a rather spectacular artist when it came to painting and he had once promised to buy some of her work when he had _earned enough._ He couldn't help glancing over her tiny frame but she looked okay, and nodded at him with wet eyes.

When he was sure she was up the stairs he turned the gun down and shot a clean hole through the back of the man's head, dirtying the floor rather than the child with the blood. He then hurried back towards the window, the doors would surely be targeted more. He slipped out, cocking the gun, and immediately he wished he had taken a moment to scan the area before jumping out. His thinking wasn't up to scratch.

He hit the ground with a heavy weight on top of him, and his body protested with a frightening reaction. He grit his teeth to keep himself from whining to be let go and struggled to fight being on his front. He was rolled over, for what reason he didn't know, but immediately lashed out, slamming his forehead into a nose. A delightful crush followed and the man fell back off of him, blood splattering over Sherlock's night shirt. He pulled away and kicked the man in the face, successfully knocking the solider out.

Breathing hard, he grabbed around blindly for his gun, or for the enemy's gun, and when he found it he knelt up, taking aim-

And with sharp jab to the back of his head everything went black.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is sort of riddled with errors. I lost the edited version so this is the badly beta'd version. I'm sorry. Point out any annoying errors and I'll fix them, I just don't have the time to check myself.
> 
> omg what have I done to Sherlock. Only second chapter and im causing shit.


	3. In the Belly of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot literally thought up as I wrote. Spontaneous ideas and all blah blah.
> 
> Probably has errors. Sorry if it sucks. Avert your eyes if it does.

_**Chapter 3: In the Belly of the Beast** _

Sherlock awoke next to the sensation of swaying. His head felt numb and heavy, his toes and fingers were ice cold, and his stomach was sticky and burning up a storm. There was a cold wind whipping past and he shivered, causing a rather great deal of pain to flare. He winced and shrunk back, remembering to breathe, when he realised he was pressed against the warmth of a body.

"Lestrade?" he asked hopefully, barely cracking open his eyes before a soothing hand began petting down his head. A hold around him that he hadn't known was there tightened and he opened his eyes to find himself pressed in Lestrade's arms, his back to Lestrade's chest, curled between his legs that were pressed up on either side of them.

"Thank God, I thought you were a goner." Lestrade said, allowing Sherlock to fumble up in a more up right position.

A goner? Sherlock had surely thought, in that second of being struck, that he would be dead. Maybe not from the blow but surely they'd shoot him afterwards when beating him was no longer fun or allowed. He tried to sit up on his own but that's when he realised they were not alone, and there was absolutely no space to move. There were people everywhere, a dozen or two of them, crowded in a metal cart. The barriers around them were rusty metal bars, letting in the cold night air and punishing their sore bodies with each jolt. "Ow..."

Lestrade tried to give him space as Sherlock had openly exhibited his need for privacy and space, but there wasn't much to give. He dared to urge Sherlock back against him, purely so he didn't aggravate his injuries. "Don't move too much, you're hurt."

"Head..." Sherlock winced, reaching up.

"And bad, you have a bad gash-no don't touch it."

Sherlock felt Lestrade hold away his wandering hands, and sunk back into his chest. The warmth was as frightening welcoming as the idea of even feeling it, and he purposely jabbed his chest where it was bleeding to focus. "Shit... They could have just ended me. What happened?"

"They panicked after you bashed in that soldier's face. Another attacked you after they knocked you out, but someone else stopped him. I'm sorry, I really tried to get to you but I didn't make it before..."

Sherlock groaned and pressed a hand to his chest. It didn't feel like a gun shot wound, more like someone swung a knife at him, but it could have been worse. He looked around weakly at all the people and saw that most of them were in a similar condition. "Survivors?"

Lestrade stiffened behind him. "Half our village is here. Except for...for the elderly and children. Whoever wasn't captured was killed."

A bad taste settled in Sherlock's mouth as his thoughts wandered to Mrs. Hudson and the little girl from earlier. What if they had been found? What if the soldiers found them and tormented them before death? Causalities of war were often hurt more than the soldiers themselves, which was why women and children were not supposed to be near a battle. The men would go into frenzies with such power and leeway; age meant nothing to a bloodthirsty man, especially if rutting.

He willed himself not to vomit and choked out his next words, promising himself to punch Lestrade if he petted him again like a child. "...We must be prisoners."

Lestrade nodded behind him. "But it makes no sense, we belong to neither England or Westhrow."

Guilt welled up inside Sherlock.

That was true. Westhrow had a major rivalry with England, Nottingham was of neither, so why go through the trouble of such a violent attack at night, and still carry off prisoners? "...Maybe they were looking for someone." he said, trying to reason with himself that if it was he who they had searched for they wouldn't have carted off the entire village with him. Surely they wouldn't have, and he wouldn't have been thrown in with the commoners, he'd be singled out, so why wasn't he?

"Or _something_." Lestrade added, but Sherlock knew he didn't know what he was talking about. The man hit his head back against the wood they rested on, Sherlock could almost feel his defeat. "Shit...I should have prepared for something like this."

"Regret is useless. Focus on what's coming next." Sherlock said, pressing at his chest again so that the pain would keep him focused and awake.

"Alright you pathetic bitches, out out _out_! File along the wall. Men that side, women this side. _Move_!"

They were ushered out of the cart by more soldiers and guns. Everyone was either too scared or too hurt to try anything, but it was clear Lestrade was barely managing to hold his tongue as he watched his people shoved to either side, no respect kept for the women or wounded.

The head solider was a crafty looking man, but not intimidating. "Fight or try to escape and you'll be executed with no dignity. Omegas especially, so don't tempt me."

Sherlock hung his head, allowing his dirty hair to curtain his face so not to gain attention. He was sent with the rest of the men, Lestrade right behind him. When against the wall he managed to whisper to Lestrade, "Let's just comply."

"You're going to be sorted into your statuses. Again, resist and it's your head." the head solider said, reminding Sherlock more of a guard instead. He tried not to stick out, hoping his bloody and dirty appearance would hide the fact that he was a prince on enemy grounds. How many of them knew his face? He prayed for the men to be lazy and neglect their work when not free to slaughter like beasts, which they obviously enjoyed.

The room they were in held nothing of interest, it was empty, and led to two doors. Behind them the breeze of the open land drifted in and Sherlock dared a peek back, realising they were in a sort of back entrance. The truck pulling the cage was reversed backwards and left little space to see outside into the darkness. There were soldiers with guns everywhere so Sherlock remained where he was. No one was calling him out, so maybe they really didn't know he was there. He could work with that, now just to keep out of attention.

Just as everyone had been sorted in a line a door opened and two men stepped out, dressed in white coats. They greeted the guard shortly before splitting and heading to either side, and began examine each person with a small sniff.

They were doctors, Sherlock realised, watching the trained movement that practise brought. They were dress in regular medical attire, no signs of guns or weaponry either. As they went every few people were pulled out, and Sherlock knew them to be alphas. They were made to stand in the middle and wait, but Sherlock saw that they were not as injured as most of the omegas were. It didn't quite make sense, alphas were more rebellious. Or perhaps the army were sadistic as well.

He jumped slightly when it was his turn to be classified and he looked away, feigning fear to hide his face. The doctor dividing the men had a calm aged face, shorter than Sherlock himself, but clearly older by a few good years.

A few seconds passed and the man moved on, and Sherlock kept his face away from everyone who was looking at him for not being pulled out as an alpha. It still hurt his pride somewhat.

Eventually all the alphas were sniffed out and a group of soldiers lead them out through one door, men and woman, leaving behind the rest. Families and friends looked around helplessly, but nothing could be done.

The head guard clapped his hands for attention and said that it was the omegas' turns, and the doctors came back up the line, faster this time as they remembered briefly who was who. Sherlock stiffened when a hand wrapped around his arm and looked up at the doctor from under his lashes, already sporting a glare. His heart threatened to leap into his throat-but there was no yell, no sign of recognition, no maniac laughter now that the prince was caught. There was just a calm looking man.

The man had sandy blond hair, his eyes primarily blue with central heterochromia, much like his own. The warmth from the man's hand burnt into Sherlock's frozen arm and he had the weirdest urge to have more. Warmth was good, warmth was healthy, and he was cold and injured. But that was what his body said, and he never allowed his body to tell him what to do. Stubbornly he kept stiff to show he wasn't a push over. Instead of a bark or a command, the doctor's lips turned up at the sides a tiny bit, almost as if in apology, and tugged to get Sherlock to move.

He complied because there was no other choice, preferring the offer to move on his own rather than be dragged, and looked back at Lestrade who looked alarmed. He felt alarmed himself, but winked at Lestrade to keep the man from doing anything stupid, for him especially. But thankfully Lestrade held back, and nodded to Sherlock in a silent good bye. Neither knew when they would see each other, or what awaited them.

Keeping a good eye and ear out Sherlock hung his head to keep camouflaged, grateful for the women crowding around him as they were more or less as tall as he was. If Nottingham was blessed with one thing it was tall beautiful woman. He briefly thought of Lestrade's love interest and realised she wasn't present. Had she been loaded onto another cart perhaps? Or was she killed for being a strong willed alpha? Sherlock had no doubt she had fought along side the men, probably until her last breath. He resisted glancing at Lestrade who looked horribly unsure of himself, and sighed heavily for the passing events.

Soon the omegas were all sniffed out and the blond doctor walked back up the line. He looked at them, at their faces, so as to gain their attention. "Follow me," he said, and headed through the right door held open by a guard.

Sherlock shot Lestrade one last look, one full of reassurance, and followed along with the others. Two soldiers trailed after them. No one looked at him, no one singled him out. They didn't seem to know he was there.

Eighty-five percent of the omegas in his huddle were women, he calculated to himself, and despite being one himself they all hovered closer to him. Maybe it was because he was male and seen as traditionally stronger, maybe they could sense his bravery, or maybe they just trusted him more than the rebels.

The walk through the bland concrete corridors was intimidating and ended in a small sitting area. Along the wall besides a small door was a few rows of benches where they were being made to sit. None of them said a word or closed their eyes for more than a second, and their suspicious stares weighed heavily on the doctor.

Sherlock quickly found himself squashed between the females and held in a grumble at the loss of personal space. He was not a comforter, these women wouldn't get comfort from him. They looked at him as if he would do something or say something to help them, but he couldn't risk exposing himself.

Then finally they were settled. Never had a room of women been so quiet, Sherlock would have chuckled if the situation wasn't so dire. The man stood in front of them, hands fidgeting before going behind his back. "Alright ladies, and gentleman, I'm Doctor Watson."

He sounded as he looked, as what Sherlock expected. Sherlock tried not to catch eye contact, but studied the man as best he could. Slumped shoulders, mediocre form, short military-styled hair, worn closed shoes, and plain trousers beneath the medical coat. Nothing fancy nor dangerous.

"A lot of you are hurt, and I'm sorry for that." The omegas looked around with small frowns, but looked back at him even more suspiciously. He continued, as if used to it. "But that's why I'm here. One by one you can come in and I'll tend to your injuries. Any volunteers to go first?"

No one offered. Of course they wouldn't, Sherlock thought it stupid to ask, but the doctor seemed to have expected silence as an answer. The man smiled softly and just started from the first row, coaxing the young woman up. Only when a female appeared from the office, also in a medical uniform did the woman reluctantly go a long.

Time ticked by annoyingly slowly for the prince. He was just after the middle of the rows, and each time the door closed it seemed like an eternity before it opened again. There were a few soldiers marching up and down every fifteen minutes, and Sherlock made sure to hold the way out to memory.

The pain slowly resurfaced, having been forgotten, and gnawed at him with new vigour. He hoped the doctor could treat him, surely his injuries weren't too bad. Now that he was sitting still and somewhat calmer, his body began to shake again from the shock of sudden battle. His stomach felt cold inside and he allowed his knee to jerk. Reluctantly he searched his body for the influence of the rut, but the only symptom was his shaky weak feeling from his body trying to preserve energy, worsened by the vigorous use of it. Suddenly he felt extremely tired, and longed for a warm bath and those scented bath salts. But this was no place to rest and he focused on the pain, and before he knew it his turn had arrived.

The women looked at him with a sympathy all had received and he smiled at them stiffly, if not extremely falsely. The woman from the office had come to fetch him, clutching a small book to her chest. She was plain, but pretty in a general sense. She smiled genuinely at Sherlock and he tried not to assume she was one that found it funny that he was an omega. He stood before she could verbally prompt him and she smiled gratefully, mumbling "This way" as she took him into the office.

After a few reluctant steps inside Sherlock frowned at the condition. It was hardly professional for a doctor's office or examination room, but then again they were not guests or patients, they were prisoners. The woman closed the door behind them and the doctor looked up from his desk, quickly getting up.

"Ah, hello." the man said, and extended a hand. Sherlock looked at it, then to the man, and grudgingly could not find a hint of mock or malevolence. Usually he was good at seeing through people, and both these medical professionals were grating on his nerves by being so benevolent.

Before the man could retract his hand Sherlock grasped it briefly, shaking it firmly to say I _'M WATCHING YOU_ , but gentle enough to avoid suspicion. He could play the soft omega card while trying to figure out why they were here and how to escape, he'd be overlooked. He knew the alphas would be loud and rebellious, it was in there nature to resist authority and most of them had family here, they'd fight for freedom and to show their loved ones they were not abandoned. So hopefully he could think while the others distracted the rebels, but he didn't know what the Westhrow rebels had in store for them.

Doctor Watson smiled, seemingly pleased, and gestured to the female that was fiddling across the room. "That is Molly, my assistant. Do you mind if she's here?"

Sherlock looked at the woman who looked more harmless than Mrs. Hudson. He didn't think he'd have a choice, but he didn't see any reason for her to leave. Unless he was going to be stripped naked and searched thoroughly, then perhaps privacy would be needed. He shook his head as an answer when he reminded himself people couldn't read minds or his vague body language.

The doctor nodded and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's arm and looked over him for his wounds. He stood indifferently and let the man work, gritting his teeth at the scent of an alpha. He sneered inwardly, looking down at the man with a huff, comparing their height childishly. Great, an alpha for a doctor. A male one too, how bias. He sniffed.

"Oh dear, you took quite a hit. Please remove your shirt, I need to clear that chest wound before infection sets in." Dr. Watson said, stepping away to prepare the equipment. Molly took his place and started to help Sherlock, pressing her lips together with a mighty blush.

Without being obvious Sherlock tested the air around her as she struggled to get off his filthy nightshirt with little physical contact. She too was an omega, and he glanced at the doctor, wondering if his intentions for having an omega assistant were positive or negative. It was possible she was there simply to make the omegas feel a little more at ease, but such a theory was laughable in a rebel base, it was more likely she was his to use in dirty ways. But looking at them, it didn't seem quite plausible, there were no vibes to back it up.

Irritably he tried to pull off his shirt when she took too long, but the pain stung and he winced. She apologised and made an extra effort, standing on her toes to pull it over his head.

When the material was off she placed in on a nearby end table and Dr Watson returned, gesturing towards the small examination table. Deep inside he felt the urge to fold his hands over his chest and hide it from this man, but pushed it away as best he could. He stepped over cautiously, watching the man with narrowed eyes, and sat when prompted.

He caught sight of the name tag stuck on the doctor's clothing. It said "Alpha. B. Watson." Sherlock wondered what his first name was. Bob? Bart? And how very _Westhrow-lik_ e to show off an alpha status. His lip jutted out and he resisted shoving the man, which wasn't as hard as he wished it was for the damn man looked no where as smug or threatening as the others, plus he was a doctor not a solider. Stupid medical man.

With a steady hand the man began his work, cleaning the wound and assessing it with a practised skill. Sherlock clenched his teeth at the sting and kept his face blank, watching the man dab across his chest. It was as if someone had hit him in the chest with a jagged blunt object, but the damage wasn't fatal like a stab wound or a gunshot.

After a few moments the blond man looked up with a crooked smile. "Fighter?" he guessed, and Sherlock's brows twitched in question. "I assume you took up arms when they attacked?"

 _How very perceptive_ , Sherlock thought sarcastically. He gave a single nod in confirmation, glancing towards the woman Molly who was watching the doctor's work carefully.

The man continued, looking up from under his eyes at every pause of his hand until Sherlock felt he was too close even for a doctor. Was he trying to find something? Was he literally trying to sniff out lies? No one could tell when Sherlock was lying, no one. The alpha scent was getting to him and making him edgy, he'd always purposely avoided taking in alpha scents, now there was one being forced into his nostrils.

"You're lucky they didn't kill you, but they definitely thought you were a threat to wound an omega like this. You must be good on the battlefield."

Sherlock took the compliment with an invisible smugness, but nodded vaguely at the logic, frowning afterwards in thought. "...They couldn't have known I was an omega during the battle. No one was on me enough to know that."

So no one knew he was the prince then?

The doctor leaned away to discard the bloodied tissues, giving Sherlock a sideways glance. "Then why didn't they kill you?"

Sherlock turned his head to look directly at him in a way that he knew intimidated men. "You tell me." he said lowly. He was the one working for Westhrow, not Sherlock.

For a few seconds the man stared at him with an unusual expression, one Sherlock wasn't expecting nor could he decipher, then turned to his assistant as if it never happened. "Molly, pass me the clippers." The woman hurried to assist, muttering apologies when she stumbled clumsily a few times, cheeks pink. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and wished he could just marry them already. The doctor didn't seem at all fazed or receptive, and turned back to Sherlock and asked him to lift his arms so he could wrap around the bandages.

The undercover prince did so, feeling his muscles pull with a slight burn. As soon as he lifted his arms he had the horrible urge to bring them back over his chest and bark for privacy. He felt more so exposed than usual during his rut and having a strange alpha feeling along his bare chest made him nervous. Not _him_ , but his instincts. Everything screamed at him to push the man away and not give him the opportunity to catch him in such a vulnerable state. But Sherlock pushed away that voice to the back of his mind and sat on it, knowing full well he could still handle a brawl right now if he needed to. He was a prince for goodness sake, he hated the rut for making him feel like a little bitch.

God he cursed rut.

With his nose stuck as high as his arms Sherlock sat perfectly still as the doctor wrapped the white material around and around his chest. It was hardly a good treatment, but it would do. It was the bare minimum, and Sherlock was glad he hadn't expected more.

"Alright, that should hold," Dr. Watson said to himself after sealing it firmly. Sherlock dropped his arms as quick as he could without being obvious or giving in to his omega itches and sniffed sourly. The doctor glanced at him again oddly but he kept any emotion off his face, ironically alerting the man instead of coming off as indifferent.

Then the doctor smiled, looking a bit confused on the corner of Sherlock's eye, but returned to him with fresh equipment.

"Bend your head a bit, you're tall even sitting." he joked. Sherlock looked down at him, and found himself staring into the man's blue eyes. Immediately he felt uncomfortable, but there was something in them that made it hard to look away, or to scowl at. Why was it so hard to hate this man? Had this been any other situation Sherlock was certain molestation and taunting would have come to pass, and if it had he would have politely grabbed the nearby sheers and lodged them in the man's neck and kick him straight out the office for show. Maybe it would even give the other omegas the backbone they weren't brought up with.

But this stupid man was being too polite.

There was still no sign of deception, but now that it was brought up he realised his head did hurt quite a bit. Slowly he leaned over and hung his head, staring at his knees and down to their feet. He heard a "thank you" from the doctor and subconsciously his fingers tightened around the edge of the bed. This time he himself became nervous for exposing his head to this stranger, tremendous damage could he done if he was struck on the head.

"Oh." the doctor said, concern heavy in his voice. Sherlock breathed sharply through his nose as the man examined his scalp, igniting pain. "This is worse than your chest, you'll need stitches I'm afraid."

Did they give stitches here? Sherlock wondered what kind of rebel base this was.

"We don't have Paracetamol though. Can you handle stitches without them?"

Sherlock realised the man was leaning to the right to look at his face. He couldn't help peeking up at him, and grit his teeth at the soft expression given to him. Why was the man acting all nice, why the pretence? Did he think he was stupid? Did he think he could be fooled and moulded into a submissive state of gratefulness so that he could manipulate him? Or was it simply pity at him being a poor wounded omega? Well that was not going to happen.

"I'll have the stitches." he said, and turned his face away.

The man's face jumped into surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The doctor pulled his lips as if impressed, and smiled at Molly who was already cringing from past memories of those who had attempted it. She handed him the necessary tools and stood away, more bothered by the inevitable cries than the idea of sewing skin together.

"I'll be as gentle as I can be but you have to help me, no moving, no fidgeting." Dr. Watson said as he lifted Sherlock's head in the right position.

Being still wasn't a problem for Sherlock, and he scolded himself when he was more focused on the feeling of the man's hands in his hair than the needle about to dig into his scalp.

A few tense moments passed and Sherlock's eyes widened and his fingers tightened impossibly around the bedding, but that was the only signs he made that he was in pain. Molly watched in sympathy, and the doctor tried to get it over with as soon as possible.

Sherlock could take pain, he could. In fact, omegas and women took pain better than alphas did, it was one of the traits he liked about himself. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt, it took all he had to keep breathing evenly and not jerk away. He refused to make a sound, he'd show the alpha he was not a puny little soul.

Eventually, not long after, the doctor sighed heavily in relief and clipped away the ends, patting around the surface. Sherlock didn't show any signs of relief. He would have snorted irritably as all his deep breathing filled his lungs with the alpha's scent, but kept impossibly still as he relaxed muscle by muscle. His head was pounding and felt as if it would rip open, it had felt better without the stitches.

"High pain threshold?" the doctor asked, patting his shoulder briefly.

"Hm." Sherlock replied, staring wide eyed at his knees.

"It's nice to have someone not screaming and crying for once. I try my best to help, it's disheartening when I can't."

Sherlock frowned, feeling it pull slightly from his head. He realised his neck was stiff, and with a great effort lifted his head and sat back up straight. It felt even worse now, but he knew the stitches would help. He eyed the doctor with small suspicious eyes, acting as if he hadn't just had his scalp sown together. "Why are you fixing us, what is the point?"

The doctor hummed, and cleaned his bloody hands off under a small tap. "A dead man is no trouble, but a living man can be made of use. It's hard to work when you're injured, so I make it better."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he almost forgot to remain as common as possible. "They're holding us for use?"

"You're from Nottingham, right?"

"Yes."

"Well it's neither England nor Westhrow, so you're stuck in between. Not an ally or enemy, and since it's Westhrow that has you now, you work for them."

The doctor looked rather reluctant about the fact, and Sherlock wondered just who he was.

"Against England?" he asked instead, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah."

"I will do no such thing."

Molly shared a look with the doctor, who sighed. "You should have chosen death on the battlefield then."

This time Sherlock snorted, gritting his teeth afterwards at the sting. "I would have if I wasn't knocked out."

Molly looked unsure but impressed at the same time, and the doctor was smiling as if he was in slight awe. He shook his head to remove the smile which even he knew was inappropriate and headed to a big square container in the on corner of the room. He lifted some brown clothing and brought them to Sherlock. "All done. Nothing too severe, but you have to return in a few days for me to replace the bandages."

"Awful kind to treat the prisoners." Sherlock said, accepting the ugly cloth with a question in his eyes.

"You can't work for them if you're damaged, now can you?" the man said, sadly. Before Sherlock could retort he patted Sherlock's arm, "Please put on those clothes. Molly, will you give us a minute? Or would you prefer her to stay?"

Sherlock looked between them. He hated the situation he was forced in and he hated the way they were looking at him. Was it going to be rubbed in that he was omega? This was ridiculous. Was he was actually being asked if he'd feel safer if a fellow omega was in the room as he undressed besides a strange man? What could she do to protect him? Was it idiocy or reverse psychology? Or was he just being paranoid? Nothing seemed viable anymore.

It was a small struggle to find his voice, wishing they could just read his mind so he didn't have to waste breath. "She can leave."

There was no question or pause, Molly left immediately. The doctor smiled once, politely, and turned his back to occupy himself at his desk.

Sherlock glanced suspiciously at the doctor and then the door, and then pulled a face at the ugly brown clothes in his hands. He didn't want to verbally complain, it would draw attention as he should be worrying about his life more than the clothes given to him. But what did worry him was why they were given new clothes. What did they mean, why brown? It was an earth colour, grounded, humble, strong. Did this mean they'd be kept here for a long time? For work, for use?

His own clothes were caked in blood and dirt and still only pajamas, he deducted the rebels did night-based attacks often and the prisoners usually arrived in their nightwear. With a small smile he thought about Mrs. Hudson who would have rather died than be outside in her nighty, but it fell when the thought was possibly already the past.

Sullenly he slipped off the table and worked the shirt on first to keep at least one form of clothing on his body. He glanced at the doctor every few moments, wanting a reason to strike him, and quickly dropped his pants to climb into the others. His underwear had survived the battle without dirt and he was glad, because he wouldn't be removing them, he'd pull a Mrs. Hudson.

He struggled with the pants thanks to his wounds but the doctor didn't turn to offer help, and he didn't want it. He glared at the new clothes, cursing everything about them and bundled up his old ones. "Where do I put these?" he asked with more venom than he intended.

"Leave them on the examination table, Molly will discard them." Dr. Watson said, turning back carefully to see if Sherlock was dressed or not. The action reminded Sherlock of the few times Lestrade had walked in on him indecent, and oddly Lestrade's reaction had been much less annoying than this man's. Maybe it was because this was a stranger, an enemy, and Lestrade had become a friend who he knew didn't have a bad bone in his body.

Sherlock rolled his eyes lightly and dropped the clothing behind him, then looked back to the man with a raised brow.

"Come sit." the man said as he settled behind the desk that was rather full of clutter. "Name?"

Sherlock's lips pressed into a tight as line as he debated, sitting down carefully in the opposite seat. "Doyle. Sherlock Doyle." he said before the man could become suspicious. He watched carefully for any glint in the blue eyes that he was found out, ready to kill the man and call it an accident and choose a different name for the next rebel.

But the man didn't think twice about it, repeating _Doyle_ as he wrote it down on one of the many papers. "We only need a last name. Age?"

"Twenty five." Sherlock said, truthfully, reading the form upside down.

"Okay...Omega...you are in rut, correct?"

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Why must you know that?"

"It's not my laws, I'm just the doctor." Dr. Watson said, shrugging helplessly-no, _uselessly_.

"Maybe." Sherlock offered in return in the tone of a spoil child. He sat back in his chair, giving the doctor the stink eye and daring him to pressure him.

"Okay, not pregnant...slight cranial concussion...chest abrasion...any incurable ailments?"

"My will power?"

The doctor snorted out a short laugh, surprising Sherlock, then cleared his throat to dull it to a small smile. "Good to know not everyone is dead inside here. Children?"

Sherlock almost smiled with him, if only because his sarcasm landed with a sort of impressed retort. "None."

"Family?"

"None."

"Occupation?"

"Handyman."

The doctor nodded each time, looking as if he wanted to say something absent-mindedly, but pushed it down each time. He flipped the paper to continue down the next set of ridiculous questions. "Okay, and when did your rut begin?"

This time Sherlock leaned over to glare directly at the paper. "Why does that matter, who are these records going to?"

"Just answer me." Dr. Watson said, almost tiresomely.

Sherlock raised a brow, keeping his face steadily calm, and folded his arms. "No."

The doctor lifted both his hands in defeat. "Fine. At least let me take your pulse."

Sherlock snorted lightly, but slowly unfolded his arms and gave over his right hand. His heartbeat was calm, it wouldn't give away anything, he didn't _want_ to give away anything. The less the enemy knew, the better.

There was still no indication that the doctor knew who he was, it gave him peace in his mind.

The stranger's hand closed around his wrist Sherlock's face twitched. The palm felt overly warm and he wanted to shake it off. He didn't like people touching him, but personal space was not something a non-royal was blessed with. He breathed evenly, determined to give away nothing, and found himself locked in a gaze with the calm blue eyes.

His leg jerked lightly beneath the table when the doctor kneaded his skin in a comforting manner, looking at him the same way.

"You're calm." he said, releasing Sherlock a moment later.

"Panic hinders function." Sherlock replied, instantly rubbing his wrist on his thighs to rid the foreign feeling.

The doctor pulled his lips as he debated the answer, nodding in approval, and with an odd look brought his hand up and took a deep breath. His fingers hovered below his nostrils as he inhaled, and Sherlock realised with a horrible pang that the man had tricked him to get his scent. "Your rut can't be more than two days?" Dr. Watson said, smiling apologetically at Sherlock who was looking shocked.

He felt more angry than surprised, angry at himself for being bested and angry at the man for tricking him, and being able to _actually_ do it. He hadn't thought of that, and he felt vulnerable. He decided to blame the rut, it was messing with his functions, even without the panic. God, no wonder frightened omegas were useless, their brains disappeared at the same time.

If anything the man did look genuinely apologetic, scribbling down on the paper. "I'm sorry, I have to fill the report."

Sherlock shut his mouth, and shifted slightly. He refolded his arms. "You can't tell from my scent, not this soon."

"You can if you know what to smell for. Doctor, remember?"

"..." Sherlock wondered if this was reason enough to punch him. He wanted to pout angrily and slam his fist against the table and demand the man never speak of this again, but this was not his home where the servants would flee and Mycroft would roll his eyes at his 'little brother' and forget it happened. This was the real world, and he had to be careful what he said and did.

Clearly he was failing at hiding his thoughts and the doctor linked his fingers together with an air of patience.

"Look, I am here to help. I know you're scared, bei-"

"I'm not scared." Sherlock blurted immediately, forcing his face back into it's calm mask. He wasn't scared.

"-ing- Yes, _but_ being an omega, if-"

"Fear is for the weak."

His poker face was unbeatable, it left no room for negotiation and soon after the man relented. He bowed his head and leaned away, "Okay, okay. I like your strength. You'll need it."

"For what?" Sherlock almost looked towards the door, and finally wondered what exactly would happen when he left this room.

"Take this with you." Dr. Watson handed him the report, a single piece of paper with writing on both sides. Sherlock took it gingerly, but stood up as he glanced at it. To anyone it looked like a brief careless scan, but Sherlock took in everything in a few seconds, one thing bothering him more than the rest.

"...Omega .A. Doyle? That's my _name_?" he said, offended. The doctor stood too, and patted the badge on his chest.

"It's the name system they're using."

Sherlock frowned in thought. "What does the 'A' stand for?" he pointed to the sheet, simultaneously wondering if the 'B' on Dr. Watson was not his name but merely a code for the system.

"It means you are the first Doyle here. I'm 'B', the second Watson counted."

It all made sense then, and he composed his features again. "I see."

Dr. Watson headed to the door, "You'll be sent back to me soon to tend to you're injuries."

"If I don't meet the gallows first." Sherlock muttered.

The man frowned at him, but shrugged in a manner than said 'it's-your-choice'. "With that attitude, you might."

XxXxXxXxXxXx


	4. Is this Our Fate

_**Chapter 4:Is this our Fate** _

Sherlock wanted the gallows. He was not a coward, he was not a weakling, nor was he pessimistic, but he was surrounded by such an atmosphere that he could not reason with himself. He never thought this level of mental incapacity for himself was possible.

After the trip to the doctor he was put with the omegas that were already seen to, and after another small wait they were all escorted deep into the facility. He kept his head down, trying to hide his face with his hair that had grown out. Their reports were all taken by a guard when they reached their destination, and instantly the group panicked upon arrival.

They had been taken to a room of cells. The women panicked quickly and a few tried to run back, but they were easily subdued by the soldiers. They were also wearing the ugly brown suits, but theirs were dresses ending by their knees.

They were forced through and all shoved into one cage, at least twenty of them. The cage wasn't tiny, but it became cramped when they all rushed to the back. The other omega males with him tried to sooth the women but Sherlock stood off to the side, sinking down to the floor and pressing his face into his knees. The guards noted it all smugly and left them, but it was purely to keep his face a mystery as long as possible. The women followed his example and sat down in a big huddle.

All around them in the surrounding cages sat omegas and what Sherlock knew to be beta's, but only females. The only males in the entire room of cells were male omegas, everyone else was female.

For two days they were left in the cell, given no water, no food, not even a bathroom break. The cells were cold and damp, most unwelcoming. Everyone was miserable and frightened, the mood was panicky and sullen and it rubbed off onto Sherlock no matter how hard he tried to resist it. But he was in rut, he was hormonal, and he began to feel as nervous as the rest of them. In the cells around them the women and few men stared at each other, communicating in soft whispers to family and friends lest the soldiers heard them. No one bothered to try speak to Sherlock, he was the snobby new omega, they left him be, and he sat silently.

What made it worse were the soldiers. Sherlock saw no proper authority among them and it was alarming when they began pulling out the women. At least five women were selected through the two days that passed and Sherlock could guess for what. They screamed horrid screams when pulled out the cells, it was obvious they knew as well, and anyone attempting to stop them met a severe beating. No one from Sherlock's cage was removed and he was morbidly grateful for not being forced to make the choice of sitting back and watching, or standing and fighting and risk being beaten and recognised.

Nevertheless a sick feeling settled in his gut as the women screamed and their family and friends cried, and by the end of the second day he felt like a woman on her periods. His rut had only increased as well, the stress on his body made him shaky and sleepy, but he didn't want to sleep. He felt weak in the limbs and almost weepy. He almost wished he hadn't left home, but there was no time for regret, he'd have to just think of a way out, just like he always had.

He was Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you looking at?"

During the very long hours of being in the cell Sherlock realised they were besides a beta cell, and a very unpleasant woman by the name of Donovan was sitting in it amongst the others. Since the first day he arrived she had been unnecessarily unwelcoming. It didn't bother Sherlock on a personal level, she was nothing and he was a prince, but now was not the time to keep petty feuds, and she annoyed him by doing upholding them.

"The air in front of your face."

She snorted, her hair unkempt, her face dirty and her eyes red. She didn't have as many injuries as the majority had, but she sure had received a terrible shock. "Yeah? Keep going and you'll get what's coming to you. You'll be next. I'm a beta, you're omega."

He continued to stare through her. He was lost in his thoughts, she just happened to be in the direction his eyes had stuck. Though his reply was callous to the women around him, he couldn't care less in his state. "I'm not the woman here."

Donovan sneered, shifting on the floor to lean toward him. "You're more of a bitch than I am, _freak_."

"Be quiet, they'll return." He said without emotion, his arms around his knees.

"Oh, scared are you? You ought to be. They'll kill us if we fight them."

It wasn't much of a threat. He'd rather die than to be held down and raped. If they dared drag him out he'd resist until he was successful. If not, he'd have to trip conveniently in the direction of a sharp object. Donovan looked like she was trying to hide that she was as scared of the rest of them, and she was failing. The only reason Sherlock was managing to stay stoic was through a discipline gained over many years. He was just grateful there were no males to antagonise his rut with mating calls. He knew he was more attracted to male scents, but not fellow omega scents, so at least he was saved that trouble. For now.

As if on queue the door burst open and the guard Anderson barged in, smiling around the steel bars as the woman scrambled to hide their faces.

"No need to hide, soon you'll all be out to work. But a little practice never hurts." He taunted, and Sherlock felt his gut clench. The guard stopped at the cage next to his and locked ironically onto his woman of choice. "Don't you agree?"

Donovan gaped at him, and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Sherlock looked away and tightened his fists. Fate was cruel.

Anderson made a smirking sound in the back of his throat and opened the cell with a threatening _CLANG_ , stalking up to her. "Get up, come on."

Sherlock laid his head against his knees and closed his eyes, trying to feel nothing as he listened to her shuffle to her feet after a while of hesitating. Emotions were too much of a liability. Don't feel for her. Don't feel for her. Don't feel for her... Sweet threats were thrown and eventually she had to comply. Only when the door to the room shut did he look up again and saw expressions of relief and sadness. He didn't want to feel either. He hadn't liked the woman, but he could not rejoice in her torment.

He was so hungry, so cold, so in pain. But so was everyone else. His own rut was gnawing at him and with a horrible shock he realised he could not stem it in here. There was no chance to jerk off a quick one for relief, he'd end up stewing until he utterly stunk of pheromones, and while the women were naturally selected first, there was a big chance he'd be sniffed out when the women became monotonous. There was so much to think about, so much to work out and plan, and for once he couldn't think…

Sherlock couldn't think.

What was he if he couldn't think?

A day later, it seemed like an eternity to Sherlock, they were finally fed and given water, and those with serious injuries were sent back to the doctor. Sherlock was happy to be out of the cell but he didn't feel as strong and confident as the first day, even after having his head gashed open.

He was welcomed into the medical room warmly by Dr. Watson. "Ah, Sherlock right?"

"Impeccable memory." Sherlock replied in a thick voice, wishing he had just nodded.

"You were memorable." The man said, and led him over to the examination table where Sherlock climbed onto in a robotic manner.

"That isn't a good word to be associated with around here."

"That is painfully true." The man said with a short sad laugh. "I'm John, by the way. In case you…you know, wanted to call me by something."

Sherlock couldn't link what the man said to his own thoughts and stared blankly. It wasn't done to be purposely rude, he was just very, very, unfocused. The doctor took it for apathy and pulled his lips in apology and turned away. Sherlock frowned and recited the words, settling on the basic knowledge that his name was John.

There was a knock at the door and the female assistant stepped in. She handed John a small book, and when she noticed Sherlock she flushed.

"Oh, h-hello Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded this time, raising a brow at John who chuckled, "Maybe more than memorable. Let's see to your wounds."

Not even bothering to understand the first sentence Sherlock lifted his shirt a little, allowing John to tend to his injuries. He felt like he was only half conscious, as if he was sleep walking. It was evident when John touched the bare skin of his chest and Sherlock jumped as if it was unexpected. On reflex he knocked John's hands away and sat shocked, staring at the man in a most confused and frustration way. He blinked hard, he had to regain his functions or he'd become a target simply for being out of it.

"Sorry." He muttered, gingerly pulling back up his shirt to the doctor who was looking a tad hesitant, but patient.

"I should have given you warning, my hands are a bit cold." John said, and rubbed them together.

Were they cold? Sherlock couldn't tell, he couldn't remember, but when the fingers returned he realised he had jumped because they _had_ been rather icy cold. Or was his body just that much warmer because of rut? Damn it. Damn it _. Damn it all_.

If there was anything John enjoyed profoundly in his time here it was a spirited person. Everyone that came through him was frightened and jumpy, he had to take extra special care as he tried to work with them. Any suddenly movements, any suspicious looking behaviour, any questionable actions set off the patient and it was not easy to treat a squirming person. It was like working with a terrified animal, he had to have an enormous amount of patience, thrice that of a regular doctor. He chose out of his own to work with the omegas and betas because he knew he would be the only one here patient enough to do it. Granted there was only one other medical professional here, but they were not trustworthy, nor humane, and John shuddered to think of him handling nervous omegas and betas, especially the women. So he took it upon himself to ensure they were treated without leaving with more trauma.

Every so often he met a spirited person. Most of those were in the alpha level, he didn't deal with them as they could handle themselves, but when he came across spirited omegas and betas he felt a sort of hope. A hope that maybe not everyone would give up. A hope that he wasn't alone. A hope that there would be another to carry on his work to calm the others. And here he had met another, but he was the oddest person he met in the entire base.

The man was just odd, in general. He looked like no other, and he certainly acted like no other. It excited John, how could he forget his name? He had even left an impression on Molly. Usually the spirited people seethed and went on about how they would not give in, and how they would fight to the bitter end and find a way out and tell the world, but this Sherlock just sat there as if he was thinking about something more important than their abduction and captivity.

Sherlock reminded him of a child refusing to take his punishment from his parents, as if he thought he had done nothing wrong. Not that he had, but it's just how it struck John. It was just so humorously different that it made John laugh and feel a tad worried at the same time. Over and over he had replayed the scene in his head when he had asked Sherlock when his rut began and Sherlock gave him a flat out "No." He still couldn't believe how confident the man had been at that moment, as if he had a choice. None of them had a choice…

So yes, this Sherlock had been extremely memorable with his silent yet spirited demeanour. John would have taken his quiet state for fear and uncertainty, but you'd have to be blind not to see the thought behind those cold beautiful eyes. Not cold as in callous, but they were a sharp stunning type that cut into you, instead of the warm depth most others had. It was different, it was odd, and John had found himself smiling at the memory of Mr Doyle.

Back to his work, he tried not to touch the skin more than was necessary. Omegas were especially iffy about being touched. And this one was in rut.

Carefully he peeled away the bandage and accessed the damage, mumbling to Molly for equipment so he could put on a fresh coat. Sherlock's body was emanating heat and he was shaking a bit by his fingers. The conditions in the cells were horrid so John always tried to clean out and cover the wounds as best as possible to avoid infection.

"Is it hurting?" He asked, looking up at the sharp cheek bones a head space away.

Sherlock watched him carefully, trying to keep his breathing shallow and even. It was no longer easy to breathe in deep even breaths because the man's alpha scent was all over the room and Sherlock felt oddly violated by breathing in the scent. But maybe he was being a bit dramatic. Still, he didn't want to pant obscenely and entertain the man.

This time Sherlock shook his head, eyes narrowed slightly. The doctor smiled and continued his practised hand movements. He looked so focused, so practised, so genuine, Sherlock wondered if the man actually wasn't a pig. No suggestive prods or taunts were passed and Sherlock couldn't help but look around the room for more help.

It was a mess. Or rather, organised chaos. There were piles of papers and clutter set up in spots as if order had been attempted a few times, but the room in general was messy. Useless items were stuffed everywhere, everything was old and rusty and it eventually hit Sherlock that this had been a storeroom. There were no possessive signs in here, nothing to show the controlling nature of an alpha.

So he turned to the woman Molly. Her admiring glances at the doctor were plain to see and evident of affection, but she was awkward and had as much sex appeal as Lestrade had when feeling rejected. She hovered around the doctor but made no direct effort to be been, as much as Sherlock could see it in her eyes. But it didn't seem Dr. Watson returned her affections, in fact he looked oblivious, and the idea of them being in a sexual relationship flew out the window. Now that he had seen them again it was obviously his theories had been purely outrageous because of paranoia and expecting the worst as to prepare. There was no filthy story here, he was the kind doctor and she was his kind little nurse. Sherlock relaxed slightly knowing this John didn't have sexual favours on his mind.

A snap of fingers broke him from a trance and he looked at the doctor, clearly having missed something. "Huh?"

John smiled. "I said you can put your shirt down."

Sherlock did so with haste, seeing Molly laugh softly in the background.

"Let's see to your head. How did the stitches treat you?" John asked as he beckoned for Sherlock to lean over and give him his head.

"Fine." Sherlock said, wincing a little as John thumbed around.

The stitches couldn't be pulled out and redone but they were holding well and it didn't look infected, so John dabbed over to clean it a little more. As he dabbed, John found himself admiring the wavy black locks his fingers were dancing in. They were a little greasy but soft, gentle waves and little curls here and there. The hair of course stunk of the man's scent and John found himself actively trying to ignore it. He focused back on cleaning the stitches, and when he was done petted the surround hair in place to cover it.

"You didn't lose much hair." He said when Sherlock reached to touch the place, and John wondered if the petting was a little too personal for the man. Usually it brought comfort to the others.

Sherlock didn't bother to answer that, but rubbed away the feeling of the man's fingers. The motion had been almost too kind, no one was that kind, not in a rebel base.

John turned away from Sherlock and gestured to Molly who stood up immediately. "Molly, another five?"

"Of course." She said, glancing at Sherlock with what looked like pity. It looked just like pity. Sherlock grit his teeth discreetly.

John noticed the sudden tension in his patient and when the door closed again he pointed towards his little desk as he made his way to it. "Come sit."

With his check up done Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because we need to discuss something, and it's personal. I thought you'd appreciate some privacy." John said, glancing at the doorway.

So that's why she was sent out. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a tiny bit further, enough to show he was on to John and still coherent enough to catch any funny business. Not that the cell was better than this… He slipped off the examination table. "Personal how?"

"How is your rut going? Do you suffer strong symptoms, or mild?" John linked his fingers, a pen stuck somewhere between the digits. He watched Sherlock with a patience that annoyed Sherlock. He almost wanted the man to do something wrong so he could stop relaxing when he shouldn't relax at all.

When Sherlock finally registered the question in his cloudy mind he scowled, and stalked forward to show he was not frightened. "Do you want me to explain in graphic detail? You're a doctor, you should know without having to ask."

John raised both palms in defence and decided beating around the bush was perhaps not the way to handle this man. "Fine. You are all going to be put to work. Everyone that was captured from your home. Together we'll set a preference for what work you'll be put into. The-"

"Then what? I slave away forever?" Sherlock butted in, dropping heavily into the chair to continue his 'I-am-not-a-weak-omega' stance for the doctor.

John looked unsure for a moment, tapping his pen on his knuckles. "...Ask the commanders that. You have three choices. Warfare, manufacturing, or breeding."

The last option made the hair Sherlock's neck stand simply for being there, but he remained stoic, throwing in a bit of sarcasm now that he was waking up some from the stupor of the cell. "Is there a forth?"

"Probably death." John said.

"I'll take that." Sherlock said as he sat back as if he passed a royal decree.

John smiled weakly. "I don't kill. I save."

"..." Sherlock wasn't joking. Well, he was half joking. He didn't want the doctor to kill him, but he'd die finding a way out. The first two options were endurable of course, if he was kept alive he could still gather information.

"Alright then...war is out for you, automatically. You're male but still weaker if compared to a dozen alpha men rampaging towards you. Omegas are never put in warfare. And I never suggest the breeding, so..."

It highly bothered Sherlock that he was kept out of warfare for being an omega. He felt like those feminists that bitched and protested about being repressed because of their gender. He could fight just as well as any muscled idiot with a helmet, how dare they judge him because he was omega? He registered that he was supposed to feel relieved that the man never suggested the breeding, but he wanted to be difficult instead. He was moody and irritable and suddenly he had the desire to feel those hands in his hair again. Damn it damn it damn it.

"Why bother giving me a choice if you have chosen already?" he asked to cover all the different things he was feeling.

For the first time since they met John allowed himself a bit of leeway and raised a sarcastic brow. Sherlock looked like he could handle it. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you _want_ to be impregnated to boost Moriarty's numbers?"

Shock smacked straight onto Sherlock's face, but not because of what John thought. Moriarty was a name whispered around the palace, like the word _bogeyman_ amongst children. It was said this Moriarty was running Westhrow from behind the stage, a ruthless psychotic mad man obsessed with the thought of ruling the entire nation, starting with both Westhrow and England. To do that he'd need a large support base, that meant a lot of people, and what faster way to get people than to steal them… Suddenly it made sense why Nottingham was raided; Westhrow was coveting small independent lands to add to their own. And if breeding was an actual division for the captured, that meant double the numbers in a few years. This was not good for England at all, Sherlock wished he could contact Mycroft.

John couldn't mind read and Sherlock forgot all about rearranging his facial features as his mind buzzed with the new information. He looked utterly gobsmacked and John felt a horrible pang of guilt for hanging such a threat over him. "...I'm sorry. That was uncalled for…I just hate the breeding program.'

It was the way John's voice cracked on the last word that snapped Sherlock from his thoughts. It had been just clear enough to hear from his seat, and Sherlock found he believed him.

"...I would think I wouldn't have a choice out of the breeding either." He replied softly. If omegas were definitely not allowed in warfare because of oppressing view, surely they'd be forced into breeding as a boomerang effect?

"If there are enough labourers or you have a particular trait they like then yes, you are moved to breeding. But even then most of them are sent back to labour until needed or too heavy to work."

Sherlock nodded in what seemed like a vague manner, his eyes staring forward at John but not quite seeing. His hand found his chin. "Moriarty's factions must have grown if he is able to do all this to so many people."

"I guess. They're taking little villages at a time."

"He must be well planned if no one is hearing about this."

"Or just fast, you know, acting before anyone notices. Take one town, hit the next before they realise the other is gone. Nottingham isn't a very united land. There is no strength."

That was painfully true, and Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Maybe that is why he is doing it..." knock down all the little rocks onto your side and eventually you'll have a mountain.

"...Well, that won't help either of us. Manufacturing?" John asked, putting his pen to paper and glancing up with tight lips.

"Obviously." Sherlock said, snapping so quickly out his trance John wondered if it had been there to begin with. "Do you think I am at risk, with my...rut?" It was the first time he openly acknowledged his rut, to the doctor at least, but now that he had some trust in him he might as well ask. He knew John could smell him even though he didn't show it, and with the mention of a breeding program he felt a small pang of worry despite himself.

John was tempted to say "No, not really, there are many others in the same boat as you" but he couldn't bring himself to lie about it. Sherlock had an attractive scent, he was a young healthy man, so why wouldn't he? But it would make him a target for randy soldiers and the breeding program if they decide he'd make 'good' babies. Somehow babies and Sherlock didn't fit together at all, and John winced gently as he spoke. "Well, a bit, yeah. But it's usually...usually the ladies…-Okay! Here. Give that in. Good luck." He couldn't handle looking into Sherlock's calm face, imagining it twisted in fear and horror should such a thing happen to him. He was strong and poised and John respected that, but it would not stop the system from taking him, and that would be another spirit crushed. John didn't want to see it.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, surprised by the sudden invitation to leave. He took the short report paper and wondered if he had done something people consider wrong, but when John didn't look up he decided he didn't care.

XxxXxxxXxX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been in captivity for four days so far, just to help you keep track~


	5. Help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock lime. Sexiness. Nomming. That stuff. Please excuse typos. And whatever else is wrong. If you want to point them out, feel free so I can fix them.

_**Chapter 5:Help?** _

After his last visit to John, Sherlock found himself herded into a workshop room with all others of omega status. This time there were no betas, unless you counted a guard or two, but there was a whole new group of omegas he'd never seen before, and they looked like they knew what they were doing. They must have been from an earlier capture from a different town.

The room was large and lining it were several long tables with a connected bench on either sides of the same length. Upon the table looked like bits of armour, and after being ordered to find a seat they were told what to do.

They were putting armour together for the soldiers.

Sherlock immediately wondered how he could jeopardise it.

A whistle was blown and the omegas that had been working here for a while scrambled into their seats, getting to work straight away. The previous residents of Nottingham were left to follow their example as fast as they could, and in the scramble Sherlock didn't see Molly squeezing in besides him on the table. He had been studying the armoury when she nudged his shoulder with her own.

"Hi." She said, smiling a pretty smile as she grabbed her own her pile.

Sherlock regarded her, before nodding a little stiffly, wishing he could ignore her. "Hello." It wasn't personal, he just didn't feel like having a conversation. His eyes flickered to the guards and the exits and he strained to map out the building from his memory.

"It's me. M-"

"Molly yes, I remember." He said offhandedly, trying to remember if the staircase was to the left or right.

The woman followed his gaze but saw nothing of such interest. She cleared her throat softly and glanced at the guards when she saw Sherlock hadn't started working like everyone else.

"How are you? I mean, your injuries? No one can possibly be okay in here..."

"Healed just fine thank you," he said, and caught sight of her fitting on the straps with deft precision. "Thanks to you and John." He added softly, finally taking his own armour when he realised he was sticking out by lack of arm movement. She smiled at him but all he could return was a lame twitch of his lips.

"Doctor Watson really tries, he's a good man." Molly said, peeking at him from the corner of her eye as she adjusted the leather.

Sherlock pulled a slight face, in no mood for this kind of talk. He had no time to beat around the bush and hit straight to the topic. "I'm sure he is. Have you told him that yourself?"

Molly looked surprised but kept her voice low, but unable to do the same with her blush. "What? Me? No...no, I look up to him, but that's all."

"Are you sure? You're suddenly flustered." Sherlock drawled, looping his own straps after seeing how everyone else was doing it.

"I-it's nothing. It's just... _that_ time again."

Sherlock looked at her directly, wondering if she ever didn't blush. She felt his stare and gave him a look that was supposed to imply something, and then he clicked as to what it meant. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, wondering if she meant menstruation instead of heat. Neither sounded appealing in this place, but she looked more flustered than cramping.

"Oh. ...Welcome to the club." he said, turning back to his work again.

"It's horrible under these conditions. My mum used to brew me a herbal tea to take away the heat... That's why I like being with Doctor Watson, he'd never take advantage of it."

"Really? _Never_?" Sherlock emphasised the last word, but she didn't seem to be hiding anything. She looked more unsure than secretive.

"He hasn't...yet? I've been here two heats with him and he's been through rut himself and he was a gentleman through it all. I don't think he's even been with anyone here...I think."

"Maybe he has. He can't just see to a dozen omegas everyday and not be tempted."

Molly's face fell as the doubt began to gnaw at her, but Sherlock didn't look sorry in the least. "I suppose..."

"Why aren't you with him now?" he asked. He meant to say 'If you're a nurse why aren't you working with him instead of here?' but to his embarrassment it came out sounding like forward bitchiness.

"I can only help him when there are a lot of people to see to. Otherwise I work here."

It made sense, Sherlock thought. If there were no patients she couldn't sit and do nothing, this wasn't a holiday. He wondered if she was a real nurse, and if John was even a real doctor. He could sense her longing to be near the doctor, but she put down the idea of a romantic interest. Perhaps she just felt safe with him, she had said so herself. He could bet John made sure she worked in manufacturing instead of breeding when not with him.

"I bet John saw to that." he said out loud, without meaning to.

Stupid rut.

Molly frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing. Stop tucking your hair behind your ear, you're catching the guard's eye. Don't look. Try to look ugly, slouch."

"O-okay?..."

Sherlock didn't know exactly how many days had passed, maybe two, but it was evident they _were_ passing, judging by the increasing desire to be on his back with someone between his legs. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't give in.

He was not going to give himself or a disgusting rebel the chance to soil his body, and his mind for that matter. He scolded his body, he tried to breathe, he focused on the armour instead of trying to jeopardise it, he was trying not to think of it.

But to no avail. It was easy to ignore being hungry, needing to pee, even emotions were nothing anymore. But this rut was pure torture. And he thought he had it hard without the suppressants. HAH, now he knew what hard meant. ...Oh God the pun.

It was like a burning inside his body, a constant reminder that made sure you could not forget. He was getting erections at the worst time and many of them. Eventually he grew horribly frustrated and if he dare think it, worried. By now his fellow omegas knew he was rutting and the guards were catching on. No one had interfered with him directly but he could see the debate in there eyes, and did his best to keep himself from looking appealing.

They had been moved to a bigger cell with bedding in them this time to sleep on so they could be fit to work the next day. They'd been fed twice a day Sherlock guesstimated as there was no clocks lining the walls to judge, and so far it looked like they were only being kept alive to work. There had been no sign of a proper authority and Sherlock struggled to gather information, the only words the soldiers and guards spoke were taunts and orders for them.

While he could handle imprisonment and being laboured to death, he just could not stand the rut. Maybe he shouldn't have been on suppressants, maybe he would have learnt to handle rut like the commoners did. He seemed to be having a worse time than the others that were in heat and rutting. He knew what would stave it off for a bit, but he couldn't. There had been absolutely no privacy since coming here and he couldn't bring himself to even rutting against the bedding at night, he just couldn't find relief among so many people, even if most were asleep, or at least pretending to be.

He didn't know what to do, he began to panic, he couldn't think, and when he couldn't think, he was not himself.

But that midday it was purely by luck at a fight broke out on the way to the lunch room. A group of betas were passing by with their own guards and one of the men saw their wife in Sherlock's huddle. The man had broken away from his line and shoved through everyone to get to her, and when the guards came to remove him he grew violent. Within moments there was a huge battle in the small hallway, the commoners against the few guards.

Sherlock took the chance to run. He skidded quickly down the hallways, trying his best to remember which way was which while trying to listen for footsteps. Soldiers were called to where the commotion was and Sherlock found himself in a deserted area. It didn't look familiar at all, he couldn't see any sign that any of the doors led out.

But he did see a storeroom.

Shaking his head with a sad sigh, John made his way back to his room. It was a tiny box but it was his own, no others or guards. He hated feeling grateful but after being here for so long and seeing how everyone else lived, he did feel grateful.

He wasn't feeling down about the size of his room, no, he was over that. But he was concerned about all the beaten people down near the captives' base. He heard a brawl had broken out and when the soldiers arrived they beat everyone who didn't surrender immediately. He rushed to their aid, he knew how violent the soldiers could he, but he was sent away as they 'deserved it'.

This side of the underground base was usually empty this time of day, more so now as there was a lot of people to be sent to their cells, so John enjoyed the stroll alone without eyes burning into his back.

Rounding a corner, he stepped awkwardly to a halt as the corridor's smell hit him and looked around. There was no one about, and he carefully inhaled through his nose to use his senses to tell approximately who had been about to leave such a strong trace.

Sherlock.

It was shockingly familiar, it took two seconds at most to recognise the male's scent. It made John hesitant. The man was not someone you forgot, but John had never kept an olfactory memory of patients' scents. Especially not their rut scents.

The whole area was stinking of Sherlock, the heady scent of his desire, and John almost felt sorry for him when he remembered the man's attitude towards it. Then he jumped and took a few steps around worriedly. Sherlock couldn't have just wandered this side, they were always on high guard. He might have been brought here, to a secluded area. John couldn't imagine Sherlock doing it with a spring in his step either.

Awkwardly he began to sniff out where the scent was strongest and found himself at the storeroom door. It held various tools and such but there was nothing of use to the soldiers in there, John went in there more than they did. But this was where Sherlock was.

He leaned and pressed his ear to the door, listening and hoping not to hear sounds of distress, but all was silent. He tried not to imagine a solider with his hand over Sherlock's mouth to keep him quite and shook the damn image away.

He looked around the passageway unsurely, wondering if Sherlock had perhaps come this way, but only passed through. John took another nasal inhale, but there was no other scent to support that the omega had been dragged this way.

There was no relief in it, but John sighed, and twisted his face as the scent stuck to his tongue as an after-taste. It sent a familiar tingle through him as it spoke to his own senses. He shook his head and coughed to try get it out his lungs. But every breath drew it in again and he shook out his arms, kicking his feet out. He'd been here through enough ruts of his own and he had successfully steered clear of the poor women. It had been most difficult, he loved his ladies, but this was no place to find a sexual fling. While one of the authority figures once offered him a woman for himself he rejected it straight away. He wouldn't do what these bastards did, he wouldn't rape anyone.

Molly had made it rather difficult as of late though, but he didn't have the heart to ask her to leave his presence. She was completely alone here and she felt safe with him, how could he turn her away? Even when he wasn't in rut her heat had affected him and he found himself in his box of a room trying to think of a beautiful woman without a face. As soon as one of the captive women crossed his mind he found he couldn't bring himself to release. It left him with another raging erection a few hours later and he'd try again.

But at least he had somewhere to handle it, he'd seen the state the poor prisoners were reduced to when they were unable to find relief. He wondered if that's what brought Sherlock here. It still seemed unlikely, until he remembered the chaos nearby, and it clicked to him. He almost laughed, and wondered if Sherlock himself had caused the diversion just to get away, he seemed the type.

John allowed himself another whiff of the scent but quickly exhaled. Sherlock was intoxicating; it was as bad as the heavy scent on the breeding floor.

There were footsteps from the left and John jumped as he tried to look nonchalant. A guard approached, giving John a filthy look as he walked passed. John nodded politely like he always did and waited until the footsteps died down around the next corner...

But they didn't.

John turned around with great reluctance and cringe as lightly as possible. The guard had noticed the scent. Panic seized John and it took everything not to glanced worriedly at the storeroom

"...Hello." he said, and smiled tightly when the guard looked at him.

"...Smell that?"

"What?" John asked, stiffening when the man stepped straight up to the door and sniffed, looking around the ground as if he could see something John couldn't.

"Someone's rutting."

Shit, fuck, shit. Those images of a big disgusting hand over Sherlock's mouth became a horrible bound brighter. "Oh. Oh yes. I didn't think you were attracted to...males." he said, hoping to plant a seed of doubt in the man's mind.

"'m not, but this one's potent." The guard cocked his head to the side as he greedily breathed in, glancing at the door handle. John stepped in front of him.

"Er, yes. He's waiting for er- me." he lied.

"Oh?" the guard said, raising a suspicious brow.

"Special request for the month, I'm letting him stew for a bit. You know, they're more submissive when desperate." It was so wrong to let those words pass through his own lips, but all the guards took turns teasing him about his abstinence. Maybe they'd buy this. "Been a while for me." John added, sounding more reluctant than aroused.

The guard looked him up and down as if John was a mere tick. But he backed off, and John tried his best to seem 'better luck next time' instead of 'oh God he knows'.

"Yeah... well do somethin' quick, stinkin' up the whole floor."

"I will, thanks." John called as the man turned and left, and as soon as he was alone he slumped against the door with a sigh of relief. Lying to a guard and hiding an omega. He'd be whipped and stuck back in the cells for that. Was Sherlock even in the storeroom? He might as well find out, if he didn't, someone else would, and not all the guards were strictly heterosexual, especially not when an omega smelt so appealing.

John blushed to himself at the thought, but hurried into the room before anyone else came by. He half expected to come face to face with Sherlock, but he saw no one but a few rows of shelves and boxes.

"...Sherlock?" he called in a whisper, but no one answered. "Sherlock?"

He sniffed quietly, an involuntary moan leaving his mouth. Yes, Sherlock was in here.

He almost didn't want to find Sherlock, he _was_ literally stewing in his rut and John didn't think he would be very friendly. But that was born of fear, no one wanted to be so vulnerable when being held captive.

Slowly he crept along the few rows of boxes and metal standing shelves, trying not to make sudden movements, but he made sure the other man knew he was coming. "Sherlock." he said this time, just as he did a double take at a corner between a few stacked boxes. He wouldn't have seen Sherlock if the man hadn't jumped at the sight of him despite his verbal warnings.

The man was an utter mess. John almost thought he was dreaming. Sherlock had this air about him that of a Lord, all in control and certain about himself. He could say the sky was green and you'd want to believe it. But here squashed into the corner he was nothing like that spirited man in his office.

Sherlock was tall and well built, how he looked so tiny now John couldn't fathom. The man was squashed into the corner made by the boxes, his knees pressed up right into his chest, his hands pushed between his legs and sticking out the bottom. The room was dimly lit by an old yellow bulb but their corner was darker thanks to the shelves around the room. If Sherlock were to cover the pink of his skin with a cloth he'd be but a sack of potatoes in the corner.

But sacks of potatoes didn't tremble and pant. Sherlock was a mess, panting heavily as if he'd climbed a mountain. His whole body trembled lightly as he forced it to remain still. It fought him at every turn, and making him sweat, making him throb, making he keen. This was the worst rut ever. He had come in here to find a quick release, but it went out the window when he heard shuffling outside his door. Fear gripped him too much to continue the frantic kneading of his cock and he sat rigid, waiting for them to leave so he could continue.

He couldn't breathe enough, the air seemed so thin and any touch to his skin made him groan with tingles of pleasure. Soft touches only made him hurt, it was too sensitive, but pain dulled it as he stroked with hard tugs until it burned. But now he sat stiff again, staring wide-eyed and chest heaving with his cock exposed, but hidden by his legs and hands. It hurt to be sitting still, his hips were threatening to buck forward for the friction but he had company. Fuck _fuck_ _ **fuck**_.

"Oh, shit." John looked as nervous as Sherlock did. The omega was in a state they referred to as 'The Last Straw'. When people got to this level of need they were easily taken advantage of, their bodies became traitors and responded favourable to sex even if they were unwilling. It was common in this base, the breeders were often brought to this state of need before they were 'put to work'.

And as much as John told himself it was wrong, he could not help looking at Sherlock with a different view. Sherlock was not a woman, he was not one of those poor ladies that were hurt by the hands of the soldiers. Sherlock was a strong spoken young man, who was starting to smell better than John ever thought a male could. He glanced at his lips and saw them parted in hot gasps, a wet tongue just behind them.

John felt his groin stir.

Shocking them both, Sherlock managed to speak. "I heard voices." he cracked out. He tried to soften his breathing, and looked around John to see if anyone else had followed. He doubted it, but maybe John would take the hint and leave.

"Well, yeah. You're not hiding very well, we can smell you down the corridor."

"Shit..." Sherlock dropped his head forward and knocked his forehead on his knees. His stomach clenched and his cock throbbed, forcing a moan that was becoming as often as his breathing.

"Are you-I mean, are you trying to fix it?" John asked, and took a moment to thank God Sherlock was in here alone.

The prince looked up with a weak glare. "Trying," he confirmed, trying to flare on the sarcasm.

"Succeeding?" John asked, and convinced himself he was asking as a doctor.

Was he? No, he wasn't. Sherlock shook his head, glaring as strongly as he could which wasn't that much, then jumped at an imaginary sound. He glanced past John again on instinct.

John couldn't help looking back himself. Did people see things he didn't? He stepped closely hesitantly, trying to examine Sherlock's state a little better. "When last did you...?"

Through his own heavy breathing Sherlock registered the medical tone the man used, and he felt a small surge of trust. I didn't want to feel it and be tricked, but his mind had already slotted John in the list of 'useful people'. He had never spoken openly about his sexual habits, not that he had many, but with his cock pulsing against his stomach and his toes curling as this alpha stood over him, he found himself mumbling the truth. "Since before I got here. There's no privacy here." God he sounded so out of breath, it was humiliating.

Wait did he just acknowledge John as an alpha? Not good, not good, not good.

"I know..." John murmured. Again he felt grateful for his room where he could handle himself before facing the patients. He stepped closer to Sherlock and wondered if he should offer his own room, but his entire world stopped at the sinful sight.

John Watson was straight. For all intents and purposes he was straight. He always had been. But so had his sister been and she ended up marrying a woman. But that was different, it was love. Now for the first time in a long time, John questioned his sexuality. Sherlock looked good enough to ravage right about now. It reminded John of his youth when he and his girlfriend spent their rut and heat together. She had looked so beautiful, so hot, panting nearly every second of the day. And all for him. He felt like a king for being the only one to see her like that, to hold her writhing form close, taste the sweat gleaming across her chest. None of his experiences since then had ever matched up to those two weeks with her.

And here Sherlock was totally invading that memory. He was bringing the same fire to John as she had. Those parted bow lips sucking in little desperate breaths, those metallic feline eyes dipped in lust as he stared up at John with what John saw as need. It _was_ need, and though there was also a warning, it was weakening by the second.

His presence seemed only to make Sherlock's condition worse, and suddenly John couldn't bring himself to leave. He couldn't decide why either. Was it because his brain was telling him that Sherlock was a man and not a woman so it was okay? Was it because Sherlock's scent had him hypnotized? Was it because Sherlock was not afraid of him? Or maybe it was Sherlock himself silently wishing him closer instead of away?

No wait this was silly, John didn't have these thoughts about men. It was Sherlock's rut. And John's year of abstinence. Yes. All to do with those pesky hormones.

And John _tried_ to be indifferent. He truly wanted to. But Sherlock was clearly suffering. As a doctor, or a man for that matter, John knew what Sherlock needed. In fact he'd need a good long release after this himself, he was now aware of the tightening of his pants. It was a second nature to help people who were sick and injured, and though Sherlock wasn't either, he was struggling to even breathe.

John wanted to help Sherlock and allow him a chance to aid himself, but he was getting as paranoid as Sherlock seemed to be about someone walking in. "Look I...I'm scared if I leave you here another guard will walk past and anyone can pick up your scent now. But...I..."

All was silent for a short moment that seemed longer than eternity before a soft plea filled the air.

"...Help."

John stared. Had he heard that? He was sure he imagined it, and he didn't know why he wished that it was real.

It had taken a large internal debate to utter that word. John seemed content at staring blankly at him for a while and Sherlock used the time to think. As best he could at least. So there had been people outside the door, and he wasn't very well hidden. They both knew what he needed and while Sherlock knew he could ask him to leave and he would, he didn't want to.

It was a most shocking revelation, he was glad John was too busy sniffing up his scent in a dazed manner to notice his furious blush, his face had to be red by now. He couldn't believe himself, he couldn't believe it. He couldn't. But never before had his desires overrode his logic.

He needed contact. He needed human contact, he wanted to be touched. And if John were to step back he truly fretted that he'd jump after him and beg for it. Not verbally, definitely not, but he didn't trust himself and his hands were being rather shifty.

This was not how he usually was, he was not some needy bitch. He wasn't. He wasn't...But damn it he was throbbing like a fresh bruise, leaking all over his stomach and he had the most horrible urge to rub his fingers against his hole. And John's presence made it twice as worse. The man was a damn alpha, clearly becoming aroused by his state and yet he was holding back.

_He was holding back._

It almost seemed suspicious, but Molly had been right. The man was an honest gentleman, Sherlock would have thrown a fit had anyone else stepped through that door, and he had already chosen what he'd topple first. But as soon as he'd heard John he had immediately relaxed, he hadn't noticed that at the time.

Just as his own scent was affecting the other, he was starting to smell John's scent, and now laced with arousal it cemented Sherlock's choice. He needed a good release, they say the best came with a partner, and even if he didn't agree he felt the frightening truth that he would call for John anyway. He was too far gone, he couldn't say no, it was physically impossible. And here he had thought that was a myth.

"...Are you sure?" John asked, watching the male closely.

In response Sherlock out a keen whine, one that made him blush and swear never to make again. He tried to speak to distract John who was as surprised as he was, but he couldn't form words, only his voice.

To John the sound was like a tight slap into action. John knew that sound, oh he knew it, but he'd never heard it from a male, and he didn't think he ever wanted to. In the back of his mind a little voice screamed at him that Sherlock was only asking because he was at The Last Straw stage, but if he left Sherlock like this someone else would get a hold of him. Someone had to do something, and if it wasn't him, it would be an evil person.

"Okay, just keep it down. I don't want anyone to find you." John stepped forward in front of Sherlock. He looked down into those sharp eyes, feeling as if they knew more than he ever would. "Do you trust me?"

Did he? Sherlock wasn't sure. He trusted John OVER the rest of the rebels here, yes. Was John a rebel, or just a hired doctor? He wasn't sure anymore.

There was no answer in any form, Sherlock just stared at him. John didn't push for an answer, Sherlock's brain was probably frozen on one of the indecent thoughts that were trying to control him. He felt sympathy for the man. "Just... just think of this as a medical procedure, okay? You'll feel better afterwards."

Sherlock's cock twitched at the implication. "Mo-Molly said you never take advantage." He managed to breathe out. There was supposed to be a threat in there somewhere but it was becoming hard to tell which direction the ceiling was.

John regarded Sherlock and wondered when he and Molly had spoken about him. He was glad Molly spoke good things about him, but he was beginning to realise he'd get no where with this man if he didn't put his foot in the door. He wasn't a bossy man and this omega was the type to take charge if not shown authority. It wasn't a bad thing, but John didn't fancy being bossed around like this if it wasn't going to be appreciated. He was going an extra mile here too you know.

"I'm not pulling mine out, am I? Okay um, how should we-?"

Before John knew it he was crashing clumsily by a sudden tug on his shirt. He just barely managed not to land on Sherlock, his knees just missing his toes. He winced and threw up a look that asked Sherlock if he was mad, but it softened as Sherlock stared silently at him, now tugging in small jerks on his shirt. John kept his thoughts to himself and shifted into a more comfortable position, being mindful of Sherlock who still jumped at their contact even though he had initiated them.

"Wow, okay, on the floor?" John asked, sitting back on his calves and facing Sherlock who was between his thighs.

"Like you've never had sex on the floor." Sherlock sniffed, his traitorous eyes drifting to those thighs thicker than his, and that bulge settled between them. A dirty tremor crawl through him at the sight but he didn't want to look away. It was just body parts. Yes. This was just a part of life. Instinct. It happened, shit happened. And he was doing this for himself. And he wanted John to know that too.

"Well, yes, but- wait, sex?"

"It's a figure of speech! Are you going to help or not?" Sherlock sounded as desperate as he did upset. John almost backed away, but Sherlock shifted towards him awkwardly as if he expected something.

"Not if you keep up that tone." John warned lightly, and Sherlock shifted back the way he came. He looked near murderous.

"You're not an alpha over me."

John held up his hands and nodded in agreement. "Okay. I know you're scared."

Sherlock's figurative ears shot back and he bristled. He lifted a foot as if to kick John, but if moved it he'd expose his length, so he snarled and jerked it instead. "I am not scared! Fine, get away."

Sherlock's voice carried through the room and John jumped, looking back. "Ssh! Stop it-"

Sherlock smacked the hands reaching for him and hit back against the boxes, ignoring the threatening sway they gave. "Let me go, you lout!"

"Stop!" John barked, grabbing hold of Sherlock's wrists firmly. For a moment the male looked up at him with shaking eyes. John didn't know when he knelt up, he was now kneeling over Sherlock and held his hands away from his body. He was well aware of the authority in his tone, but it worked, and Sherlock was still. He shifted, keeping his expression hard, but loosened his grip and rubbed his fingers soothingly over Sherlock's skin. "Let's help you before a guard sniffs us both out and does away with us."

As much as he wanted to kick John over and reveal that he was a prince and should be treated as one he knew he couldn't. Also, the contact on his wrists sent a wild fire through his stomach. With effort he stifled the groan on his tongue and pulled his hands back to his chest. John let him without a fuss, and Sherlock grew a little more trust for him.

"Turn around." John suggested, and moved back to give Sherlock space. The dark-haired omega frowned his usual frown when trying to figure out something of a personal nature. John sighed internally and gestured for Sherlock to turn over. "I won't look."

Having his back to an alpha, in enemy grounds, while helpless in rut was NOT something Sherlock thought he would ever be stupid enough to do. But he couldn't stop himself. He kept a few deadly attacks hanging in the back of his mind should the doctor attack him and finally turned over onto his knees. He made sure to keep his erection from view as he turned around, and jumped when John's gentle hands guided him back a little from the boxes so his face wasn't pressed against them.

A sudden case of cold feet happened and Sherlock froze. This was definitely not smart, he was making himself too vulnerable. He couldn't just submit like some common bitch. But he wasn't submitting, he hadn't said he was going to allow sex, and John knew that because he said he'd _help_. Yes, he was in control. This was for _him_. This was _his_ choice. _He_ was the prince. John was no one to him. He was a servant. Yes.

"Tell me when you need space." John said in gentle whisper when he felt Sherlock freeze. He was used to people being frightened around him, and even though Sherlock wasn't particularly scared, he needed to be handled with the same patience.

Men were not his forte but omegas were close enough to women and as a doctor he was perceptive of a person's psychical condition. When Sherlock froze he gave his waist a reassuring squeeze and pressed his thumbs into the slim back, the brown material barely qualifying as a layer between them. Sherlock relaxed slightly into it and shuffled forward again, only leaning over onto his hands when John encouraged him to.

"Where are your erogenous spots?" John asked, hiding his own flustered face and shimming to the side so he wasn't pressing up against Sherlock's backside.

"My what?" Sherlock asked irritably as he leaned back towards his calves so that he didn't look like a mindless animal with his arse hitched in the air.

"Besides the obvious, where do you like to be touched?" John repeated, circling his thumbs mindfully.

"...My neck. Back of my neck." Sherlock said after a heavy pause, in which he threatened to purr under the doctor's hands.

Neck? Well, that was no help to John's own condition. He sighed out in a short breath and tapped his fingers lightly on the thin waist to warn him of a change. "Okay. Now, don't attack me."

"Don't try anything," Sherlock retorted. "...And if you tell anyone of this. I will kill you." It sounded a lot more threatening in two separate sentences. It had nothing to do with the fact that he could barely keep his breathing steady, nothing at all.

John near rolled his eyes at the mop of black hair, and shifted back straight behind Sherlock when he realised any other position would just be awkward. "Yes, because I am just waiting to tell everyone I've finally become _that_ kind of doctor."

The moment John's hips pressed into his backside Sherlock heard nothing he said. His jaw fell and a ringing caught in his ears, muffling out the sounds around him so that all he could do was feel. The accursed clothing given from the rebels were thin and of horrible quality, Sherlock felt every bulge and every seam that lay in John's lap. Just the acknowledgement that this man, this alpha, was kneeling between his legs and pressed against him made Sherlock want to roll over and lift his hips for it.

Sherlock had never known what true fear was until he lost command over himself.

Again Sherlock was stiff and John felt a little frustrated. He didn't exactly do this every day and he was trying to be mindful of his actions for Sherlock's sake but the man was being awkward and indecisive. He pressed his right hand down on the middle of Sherlock's back and dipped the other into his hip, using it to press himself forward firmly to coax Sherlock into submission without being forceful. Everyone needed a push when frightened to take a step.

"Relax, a forced release won't sate you properly and tonight you'll be attracting people again."

Sherlock snarled, and rudely smacked his foot into John's leg to hide his personal struggles. "Then do something!" He was tired of feeling like he was about to fall apart at any moment and John was making it worse!

But that was the last straw for John. His face went blank with a slight twitch of finality and he leaned over and grabbed Sherlock by the neck. "Okay then."

The quivering body beneath his jolted and he heard a surprised grunt. Then the younger male began to struggle and brought up a hand to remove his. John struggled back to keep his grip and felt a familiar flare inside his chest travel to his groin. He made a frustrated noise and tightened his grip, making Sherlock's heart skip a few beats, but with a deep breath full of sweet pheromones he slid his left hand further into Sherlock's hip, and found the throbbing problem.

The very moment both his erection and his neck were gripped tightly Sherlock let out a deep moan. It would have been a whimper if he was anyone else, but after that keen he was all but trying to act like he didn't have a voice.

Instantly his will to resist broke away and his head snapped up, sandwiching John's hand between the back of his neck and his shoulders. Lithe hips snapped up in the same direction, making Sherlock's heart race faster. The hardness concealed in John's pants pressed against his clothed cheeks but he could feel every inch of it, every inch making his skin tingle more and more.

The reaction was good, so John experimentally rubbed his thumbs in a circular motion, and the reaction was just as positive. He grunted in surprise and pressed forward into the heat, readjusting his grip on the member that was already coating his hand with pre seminal fluid. Sherlock was so aroused John wondered how he hadn't been pounced on. More than one his female patients had tried to jump him when in their heat. Each time he just managed to escape with his pants still on, and the women would explain later they couldn't control themselves, he was the only man they could trust. And it was true, if he was them he'd also want someone trustworthy to give in to when so vulnerable.

He was impressed with Sherlock's control. Maybe it was because he was a man? And while John felt filthy at the prospect to taking advantage of these poor, albeit willing women, he did not feel it for Sherlock. He searched for it as he dug his tips into the curve of Sherlock's neck and igniting a gasp, but it wasn't there. It had to be because Sherlock was a man that John didn't feel that guilt. Sherlock could handle himself, omega or not. At least, he'd fair better.

A slow motion developed in which John massaged the soft skin in his hands. The skin was so hot beneath his fingers, he could almost feel the blood boiling. Slowly Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and he dropped his head forward again so it hung, and John took the space to give it a good scratch.

Instantly hips bucked back into his and he found himself jerking forward. Quickly he restrained himself and put some more effort into stimulating the erection instead, a blush heating over his face. He moved a little until he was leaning over Sherlock, in the best position now for both hands, and any motion of Sherlock's hips pressed closely against his own cock. He didn't have to move at all to get the cheap thrills he ignored all this year, Sherlock did it all for him, indirectly or not.

Staring at the dusty floor, Sherlock eventually registered that his elbows were on par with his fists. He couldn't recall when his chest and chin had made it to the floor, but there was no way he could even dare to move and disrupt the rhythm they'd developed. It was too good, much too good, and his body didn't allow him to think of anything else. There was an aroused alpha behind him palming his most sensitive spots and it felt so fucking good.

Vaguely he wondered why he hadn't done this before, how had he not known how good this was? Why didn't he bother to find out? There was no answer in the vast reaches of his mind and the questions drifted away as easily as they came. His hips rolled back each time John's hand reached his tip, and when they jerked forward they buried his cock back in the rough warmth of the palm.

He stared at the floor, unblinking, almost unbelieving of the situation. John hadn't said anything else and Sherlock found he didn't want him to, it might spoil the moment. His moment. It was obvious John was enjoying himself as well, his cock was hard and now pressing between Sherlock's cheeks through the cloth thanks to having his arse raised and his chest near flat on the floor. There was a soft nagging at the back of his mind, telling to push the man way, to feel uncomfortable that he was rubbing against him in such an intimate way, but it was thoroughly demolished when John squeezed a little harder on his neck.

John hadn't meant to, but he lost himself in the feeling of a warm rump covering his lap and leaned his weight over more than he meant to, gripping the pale neck tighter for balance as his own head fell forward with a groan. As soon as he tipped he did readjusted himself, opening his mouth to heartily apologise for almost squashing him, and for losing focus, not that he could he blamed. But strangely enough, there was no hiss, there was no curse, there was no struggle.

There was only panting. Lots and lots of obscene panting and John felt pre cum spurt into his underwear from the mere sound. He swore under his breath as Sherlock rubbed back against him, and pressed forward, not wanting to disappoint. Still no struggle was given and he wondered if he had missed it over the pounding in his ears.

He took a chance and dug his nails back into the skin and tugged with extra attention at the leaking cock, and was rewarded with a deep moan and a thrust back. He did it again, and Sherlock reacted the same. The omega's fists were balled at his chin, his back arched inwards in a most sinful way and John wondered when his knees had grown a mile between them.

It was enough to make John climax on the spot.

No he wouldn't, he _couldn't_. This was for Sherlock, for his patient, to help him through his rut. Sherlock was already a difficult man, he'd be livid if John found release with him.

With a deep inhale through the nose to steady himself John tugged on Sherlock's neck, selfishly getting as much contact as he could before it would end. He was leaning over Sherlock, barely managing to hold himself up with his stomach muscles. He was panting along with Sherlock now, feeling as though he might suffocate, and realised just how good Sherlock smelt. Actively he tried to smell that scent, letting it waft around his nostrils and allow it to make his hair stand on edge. When last had he had a good release himself? He couldn't remember.

"Shit, you're really giving off a strong whiff..." the words came out in a strangled whisper, exciting Sherlock despite knowing that he was being used as much as he was using.

This was not something Sherlock imagined could end up happening to him on his adventure. Life had become calm and monotonous by Mrs. Hudson and truthfully it was starting to kill him. Had he enjoyed that night of battle? Yes, now that he thought about it. Not the bloodshed to innocent people, but the thrill of a battle yes. And now again he was being tested in a compromising position, being challenged, and it was glorious.

There was a pool of fire in his stomach and it was glorious.

There was an alpha male over him and it was glorious.

There was a hand stroking his length and it was glorious,

There were hips thrusting against his bottom and it was glorious.

But what wasn't glorious was that wave of heavy submissiveness that fell upon him when John grew a little rough. His vision swirled dangerously and he sucked up as much air as he could, exciting John in the process. It registered to him to be worried, but there was no pain, and the pleasure doubled so he stayed still as his instincts dictated.

He jerked forward on the ground with each thrust they gave, breathing out as he went forward, inhaling sharply when he was pulled back. His right cheek was now pressed against the floor, his elbows sticking out and his fists balled just beneath his chin under his neck. His stomach was so tight he couldn't keep in anymore than a mouthful of air, and his knees were beginning to hurt.

The simulation of sex made his head swirl in a way so unlike when he was in euphoria from figuring out a mystery, but it was almost as pleasant now that he wasn't fighting to stay sane. All he could acknowledge was that it felt good. Good. Good. Good. It felt so good. When did feeling become so pleasant?

He was close. He was so close. But he didn't want it to end. Why end something so beautiful? Desperately he thrust into the slick hole John had made for him, feeling it clench in a most life like manner. John was holding him down now, he realised, and the hand on his neck was no longer kneading, but holding him down and supporting John's weight. The compression seemed to excite Sherlock's instincts and he hissed in pleasure as the alpha bore down on him.

Gasps turned to grunts as Sherlock rocked his hips as much as the position would allow and relied on John to do the rest. He was not disappointed, and each slick tug undid a little more of his mind. He could just hear John's breathing over his own and wondered what his face looked like. The man was so calm and neutral, it made Sherlock more curious that he thought possible. It was however impossible to turn his head anymore from his angle and made do with feeling the other man's need.

John gave up trying to work solely for Sherlock's pleasure and instead worked to hold off his climax, tormenting himself with each thrust against the firm cheeks spread for him. He could see every curve as he stared down at the sight, every dip and though he couldn't see it, his underwear was soaking wet from pre cum alone. His elbow began to ache from the monotonous jerking but he held out, perversely enjoying the wet feeling coating his hand. He squeezed a little tighter, thrust a little harder, and before he needed to pull his hips away to ease the build up Sherlock jerked forward more than usual as his climax finally took him under.

Straight out of instinct John leaned further over Sherlock and released his neck to slap his palm on the floor, shielding the writhing body from view and any threats that might be lurking. His own eyes were closed as he continued to pump his fist faster, listening acutely to all the delicious sounds Sherlock couldn't hide this time around.

It was the best orgasm of his life. It felt as if his lips would forever remain parted in a chorus of pleasured moans as his body shook, ejaculating the raw need he'd been suppressing all these years. He was completely undone, mind and body. When John's shadow fell directly over him he closed his eyes in an instinctual flinch and made a strangled noise as he spent his fast drops, his hips twitching erratically as they came to a reluctant stop.

They remained that way for a few good moments, catching their breaths but saying nothing. John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's limp cock and found it utterly dripping. He leaned away with it and instead of rubbing it off on his pants he shook it to the side first to remove most of it, wondering just how long it had been for the male to produce so much fluid.

Now that John wasn't moulded against him Sherlock realised the man had been keeping him on balance too. But now boneless and weak he fell to his side, failing to catch himself properly. He winced and John jumped to help steady him, but with his mind clearing and the fire dowsed he became aware of John's too close proximity.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, gulping in air along with Sherlock.

Said male nodded silently. Goosebumps grew on his arms as John helped him up, and despite his better judgement he glanced up at the corner of his eye and found concern and even a shy twitch over his features. It made Sherlock once more suspicious, but he let it go and accepted that John was the man Molly claimed him to be.

Sherlock mumbled-or at least tried to- a 'yes' and hurried to tuck himself back into his underwear. He was slightly sticky but he couldn't worry about that now, and resisted looking when John leaned away. He struggled to catch his breath but did a better job at it than John did, and Sherlock realised he'd just experienced his first orgasm with another person.

As his custom dictated Sherlock wanted to feel offended, and he did feel slightly humiliated that a man had just ground against him for his own relief. But his curiosity and need to defend himself got the better of him and he found his eyes in John's lap. It wasn't what he expected.

There was still a straining bulge jutting out from his hips and no sign that he'd climaxed. In fact John was still looking tense and Sherlock felt as if he could roll down a flight of stairs and sleep while doing it.

He didn't know what to do with that. "You...?"

John was sitting back on his calves, palms on his thighs as he did some breathing exercises. He looked up at Sherlock with a small smile, one that said "Let's-not-mention" it. "I'm fine. All better?"

Sherlock really wasn't sure what to make of it, but he found himself grateful anyway. So this indeed had been all (well mostly) for him, good, that was...good. He swallowed and sat up into a more casual position. "Yes, I believe so. Thank you." he added with some difficulty.

Looking slightly odd, John nodded a little more stiffly than looked normal and rubbed his palms on his thighs. It gave Sherlock the distinct impression that he was being asked to leave, Mrs. Hudson did it a lot. "Good, good. You'd better leave, your scent is still around."

And so he was. Shockingly he felt a tinge of hurt and betrayal, but that was ridiculous because this was a favour to _him_ , not _from_ him, and maybe the man wanted privacy to relieve himself. The thought made Sherlock's face flush and he agreed hastily with a nod before getting to his shaky feet.

"Yes, of course."

John smiled decently as Sherlock got to his feet. He saw Sherlock exert extra effort to avoid being helped, and side stepped him before rushing out. The smile faulted into a shaky laugh when the door closed and John let out a loud breath and leaned over his throbbing problem.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been in captivity 7 days now~


	6. Some good, Some Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sexiness.
> 
> Oh and sad stuff. I'm sorry

_**Chapter 6:Some Good, Some bad** _

Sherlock completely hated rut. This is exactly why he had taken those suppressants. Rut was like liquor, it fogged your mind and made you into another person. Why did it have to exist in the first place, people would have sex regardless and the surplus population would still grow.

It horrified him when he thought back to his moment with John. Not because the man had touched him where no one had touched him before, though it was quite a shock. No, it was the dangerous thoughts he had allowed to pass by.

How could he even have _wondered_ how he _hadn't_ done such a thing before, it was unconscionable! He knew exactly why he was as he was and he did not appreciate his body trying to change that! It was frightening, he had no control over himself or the situation despite how much he thought he did. His body moved on its own accord and kept him captive with the mindboggling pleasure. Fine, he admitted that was incredibly welcomed, at the time, but he hated the state he had fallen into to. John could have easily slid down the hem of him pants and taken him right then and there, but he didn't. Sherlock kept on wondering and wondering, why why why.

Each time he came to the same conclusion: John was a good man.

It was hard to believe in here, but he hadn't found out anything about John. Maybe he was just another person trapped in here? Or he was playing innocent and molesting the omegas after luring them into a false sense of security?

But after running off and leaving John to fester in the aftermath of their activity Sherlock couldn't see John as the latter. John had helped him, he'd truly helped him, and asked nothing in return. He could think again, his mind working well and smoothly; he didn't feel so vulnerable anymore.

Sherlock couldn't help think about what could have happened if a solider or guard had found him. It made his skin crawl. The younger prince of England a sticky mess on his back spread out for some horrid Westhrow enemy.

No, he couldn't give them that chance. He had to keep himself in check. John was right, his powerful release had driven the raw need to mate out of his system and he slept peacefully that night, after being found trying to find his way around. He would have much preferred to find a way out but he wondered back to the area of business and was taken back to his cell after he played the 'frightened of violence' card, hinting back to the chaos earlier and why he'd run off. At least he returned, he bargained, and watched stiffly as the guards had a tough time trying to figure out what he smelt of. Cum, sweat and John, that's what. And mothballs from the storeroom.

Sleep came easily that night but he awoke troubled, his thoughts going straight to the doctor. The man hadn't shown any particular interest in him and he had seemed as hesitant as Sherlock did in the first few moments of their storeroom party, but it ended much differently. It could have just been his rut's effect on the alpha, but Sherlock felt maybe the man had put a little more heart into it than he needed to. ...Or his rut was making him emotionally needy and he was _not_ going to start letting that happen.

Everyone was oblivious to his endeavour yesterday and his group was transported to the work room without a sniff of food, whether as punishment or simple negligence Sherlock didn't know. Because what he did care about, was a thousand times worse.

Everything told him to stand up, grab a gun and shoot the enemy, but logic held him down. He was surrounded, outnumbered, and held deep in a maze of corridors, and he was physically weakened, he could not dare to risk it.

It took everything he had to sit quietly as England's greatest enemy and maniacal villain waltzed into the very room. Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock had seen his face in photographs brought from spies a while back, and it looked exactly the same now as it did then. He could easily fit into a crowd and look as common as the next, but add a sprinkle of deviance in his mind and you could see a demon smiling back at you.

The guards parted instantly to let him through and he entered with his arms thrown high and a loud greeting that seemed to mean nothing in the English language. He sauntered in, alarming the omegas, and stuck his hands in his pocket as he strode down the isles of tables as if walking down to the market.

"Well, what do we have here? So many pretty faces." his tone was patronising and full of mock. Some of the omegas looked worried, some looked down right scared, and others looked confused.

Sherlock was trying not to look like anything. The biggest threat to the crown was waltzing a few isles away from the younger prince of England. Sherlock absolutely had to remain hidden, he could not be found out, especially now that he knew _The Moriarty_ was in the area. This man was a complete tyrant, he was evil, he was a beast in fine clothing. If he knew Sherlock was in his palm, he'd all but go ape.

"And some not so pretty," Moriarty added as he grimaced rudely at a few women.

He seemed to be going no where in particular but the fear still struck Sherlock. He had the underhand here, he wasn't ready to be caught. He willed with all his might for Moriarty to stay clear of his area. Though the soldiers were incompetent and too lazy to bother to know the faces of all the royal family, Sherlock knew for a fact Moriarty would recognise him. Killing Mycroft was the main agenda, but he had a younger brother who would be next in line to the throne, so Sherlock would be the next target and Moriarty did not leave such things unattended to.

Sherlock spied the sharpest object he could and slid it into his lap. He kept his head down and tried to get down to the level of the two women on either side of him. His hair cloaked his face and he hunched slightly, trying not to draw attention as the demon skipped around blurting threats that were rolled in candy and sherbet.

"I know it's scary." Moriarty teased, pouting around, making the women in his vicinity extremely uncomfortable. He raised a hand and bunched his fingers together, bouncing it across the air, "But if you're good, you'll be okay. It's simple, really. If I have to repeat that then I'll have the guards cut open your heads to see if perhaps you're missing that little thing called a BRAIN!"

His voice bounced violently through the room and the women cowered away, avoiding his gaze as actively as Sherlock was. His hand tightened around the blade but he remained as still as a statue.

"Do you hear what I'm saying? I mean you're not a bad bunch, not bad at all, but you can be replaced and I'll feed you to my dogs."

It was not an empty threat, they could all hear it lurking, waiting for a reason to rise. No one dared give it.

Moriarty screwed up his face like women did when cooing over a baby and smiled. "Good."

The man stepped back away from Sherlock's direction and headed the way he came, filling them all with relief before he stopped, as well as a hundred breaths.

"Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock's head snapped up.

Down the isles, where Moriarty stood, Molly sat gaping, her eyes already watering, face turning red as her heart no doubt began to speed.

"I believe you're needed elsewhere." he said, leaning over as if to a child. She gaped at him, frozen in fear.

Sherlock strained to hear. He was rooted in spot as well, he didn't know what to do. He barely managed to see over the sea of heads as Molly got up, shaking, and cried out when Moriarty grabbed her arm and simply pulled her along, then shoved her at a particular guard who had three other women with him and a small book.

Sherlock's foot began to tap and he debated if to do something. He wanted to, he didn't think this was good, but he couldn't. _He couldn't_.

The guard left with a worried looking Molly and Sherlock realised Moriarty was gone as well. He had entered like a hurricane on a field and left a shadow in the night. The head guard barked for them to return to work, and Sherlock slipped the sharp object back onto the table, his thoughts now on two people.

It worried him that Moriarty was here, and why had he himself come to collect Molly? That couldn't be good. What had she done, why did they come for her? Why did Moriarty himself come for her? She was no one to them? Sherlock hadn't been here very long but he doubted Moriarty would come all the way here to fetch prisoners for someone else. He couldn't understand it.

The rest of the day passed and Sherlock came to realise he'd have to lay low until he was out of rut, only then could he truly try some investigating. Until then he had to focus on remaining unseen, just another person in the crowd. Small bits of an evening meal were given and Sherlock finally realised the lack of food was taking its toll. He was incredibly hungry and everyone else looked to feel the same way.

The night passed on a neutral pace and then it was back to work. Jeopardizing the armour they were putting together wasn't an option because if anything came out wrong all the people involved in its production were punished. Sherlock didn't fancy causing a dozen women to go hungry and be forced to fix the armour anyway, so he saved that for another time.

The job was relatively simple and monotonous. Eventually Sherlock thought of smarter and more efficient ways to do it but the others couldn't keep up. They were not practised like him to ignore physical and emotional distress and it hindered their capacity to work. The guards didn't seem bothered by the snail pace, in fact it bothered Sherlock more. In his frustration he sliced a deep cut on the back of his hand as he reached over for another tool. He wasn't paying attention anymore, angry at everything and again starting to feel as miserable as the first few nights spent here.

He heard the slice of skin before he felt it and before he could stop it blood pooled on his work stable. The women besides him cried out in panic and alerted the guards before Sherlock could stop them. But he wouldn't have been able to fix it himself and felt the pain flare as he was pulled out of the line. Blood dripped down his fingers and dotted the floor as a guard pulled him away without a care that he was in pain. He kept his face as controlled as possible and ignored all the sympathetic looked clouding him from the other omegas.

He almost didn't know what to expect. He half thought he was about to be punished for getting blood everywhere, so it was a shock when he was shoved straight into John's office. The guard barked a few words to John who jumped up, having been dozing off guiltily in his chair, and callously smacked the arm attached to the damaged hand.

Sherlock didn't hear what the guard was saying. He was staring at John and felt the most odd sensation flutter in his stomach as his ears began to burn and pound with blood. The doctor looked as if he was stuttering as he hurried to answer the guard, and then cut off in mid sentence as the guard shut the door on them, apparently having said what he wanted.

John looked offended for a short moment before his eyes flickered up to Sherlock who was gripping his hand, but staring down at him. Not too long a moment passed before John shook himself into attention and found Sherlock's wound. His eyes widened into saucers and he jumped to get a clean swab.

"Goodness Sherlock! What happened?"

Now that the ice was broken Sherlock found his voice had unlocked. He cleared it, just to make sure, and held out the bleeding appendage as John hurried back to treat it. "Just a work injury."

"What on earth were you working with?" John asked incredulously, but kept his gaze from lifting as he dabbed up the blood and worked on a flimsy bandage.

"Armour." Sherlock answered though knowing it was a rhetorical question. His heart thudded erratically as John handled him gently.

"I didn't realise armour now attacked as well as defended."

Sherlock felt a smile twitch, but he suppressed it. He looked at John, quietly allowing flashes of their intimate moment to pass by his mind like the hormonal fool he was, but after a while he realised John was actively avoiding his eye. Did the man decide he was uncomfortable with what had happened? If anyone was to feel uncomfortable it was him! ...Why wasn't he?

When John turned to find something else Sherlock pulled a quick frown. His stomach was buzzing lightly and his face was still hot. He blushed further for being that way in the first place, but it was confusing when he realised he was not uncomfortable.

John however, was another question. He looked drawn and tired, now with extra effort lacing his features to remain stoic. It wasn't his strong point, Sherlock could tell, there was always a calm expression. He looked away when John returned to him, and gave the man his privacy. He looked around, remembering he was supposed to find out who this John was, when a thought came to the tip of his tongue.

"Where is Molly?"

The treatment suddenly stopped and Sherlock looked back faster than was smart. But he was glad he did, John looked twice as miserable.

"...They took her."

Yes, Sherlock had known that, but was hoping for the best as foolish as he always thought it was? Yes, it was. The butterflies (God he can't believe he had experienced that) had dropped dead and replaced by a heavy feeling, like someone had dropped a pile of ice cold mud in his stomach.

"They took her for breeding." John continued, his tongue like lead. "They didn't have to do that, she didn't deserve it."

John hadn't been sleeping at his desk, he had been mourning. Sherlock felt the melancholy wafting off John in waves. His own heart clenched and he thought of that soft spoken woman who stuck close to John in fear of such a thing.

"...I am sorry."

Now that his medical duty was over John moved away and all but threw aside his tools, making Sherlock feel bad for getting hurt and being brought to him. "Molly was innocent. Completely-! ...Innocent." John's voice cracked on the last word, and Sherlock found any doubt he had for the man disappear.

Consoling was not his strong point, he didn't know how to comfort people, so he waited for a moment to speak when John looked as if he could handle it without falling into tears. "...Moriarty came by. He looked just as evil as they say he is."

"I hope someone ends him. Painfully." John said, leaning over his desk.

Curiosity peaked, and Sherlock stepped towards him, glancing at his bandaged hand. "Your loyalties don't lie with him?"

"Of course not. I was brought here just like you. But I had skills they could use in another form as cheap labour."

Sherlock nodded. A little voice inside him was glad he hadn't been brought to orgasm by a Westhrow rebel, while another voice asked him was he really that selfish.

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

The doctor stared around the clutter on the table. Sherlock almost repeated the question when it looked like John had been too far into his own thoughts to hear it. "... I've been here what, a year now?"

"That is a long time." Sherlock noted, truthfully. He wondered just how many people were in here. John hadn't answered his question, but before he could ask, and feel slightly bad about being shallow, John continued. "I was travelling to see my sister. I didn't quite make it there. But she's far away, she's safe."

John had family. Was that what kept his going? For a whole year? Or was he such a philanthropist that he stuck it out just to help these people? It was shocking. "Don't you wish to escape?"

John finally looked up at him, looking equally frustrated and sad. "Don't you think I've tried? But after a while I figured I can still help people here. I convinced them to allow me to work as a doctor. You can't have sick and injured prisoners and expect them to work."

Sherlock nodded to the confirmation, the pain in his hand all but forgotten. "...When did Molly arrive?"

John hesitated before speaking. "A few months back. But only recently she...she was my assistant. I was hoping to teach her as much as I could so she could be useful here and not...there."

"I am so sorry." and Sherlock meant it. He did. He suddenly wished he had somehow crept out and saved her and hid her somewhere but the thought itself was stupid and full of holes.

"Me too." John replied, still looking at Sherlock. The pain on John's face was making Sherlock uncomfortable, he felt as if this was the part where he was supposed to hug him and say 'It will be okay', but what use was that? The problem and pain would still be there.

He opted to continue the conversation, a little awkwardly. "...Moriarty can't keep breeding us. He'll have more numbers than he can feed."

"Not after he kills those that are more of a threat than use. The children will be born into this, they'll be brought up of Westhrow, unlike us."

"Do you...have any family? Children?" When Sherlock thought about it, he could quite easily see John with a wife and children. He looked like that type of man.

But apparently he wasn't. Or he just hadn't gotten the chance before imprisonment. "No...Besides my sister, no. And I refuse to have any here. You?"

"Me neither." Sherlock answered softly. He wondered what John would think if he told him he'd never been in bed with anyone, but with Molly's torment going on he didn't dare throw that out there.

John replied with a humble smile and finally stood up straight. He rubbed his fingers across his forehead with a heavy sigh and headed back to Sherlock. "I'm sorry, it's just a bit hard for me."

"I understand." Sherlock said. John took his injured hand and he tried not to flinch at the wonderful warmth of the other's hand.

"It should be okay, it wasn't deep, and thankfully not on your palm. You need to be careful. I can't sew fingers back on."

The joke was cute, Sherlock thought, and offered a small smile in return. John looked like he could do with cheering up but Sherlock doubted anything would do to help. He thought back to Mrs. Hudson and felt the heaviness in his stomach double.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock looked into his eyes and opened his mouth to robotically reply. He stopped, and realised John didn't mean about his hand or Molly. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if there was a certain way people usually handled this, but when John frowned he nodded. "Yes, I am. Er, yes. Thank you."

The other looked content, and Sherlock felt the slightest reluctance to leave. ...Maybe more than slightly, but he blamed it on John looking so down.

"Are you going to manage without an assistant?"

"'Suppose I'll have to. Why, are you offering?" The words tumbled out before John actually meant them, but he didn't retract them or make a joke of it. He stared, a little shocked, and waited for an honest answer from the man he'd grown a fondness for.

"I've always been better with thinking than with labour." Sherlock replied, his expression matching John's.

"Well, if Molly doesn't come back then...yeah. Maybe I...maybe I could use a hand."

Sherlock didn't know if he'd even be allowed to work with John, and he certainly didn't want to jump into Molly's position if she could still return. "I hope she comes back." he said, truthfully.

John just nodded, and looked up at him with sad eyes. "If she doesn't...I'll ask for you."

As it turned out, Molly didn't return. Sherlock heard from the others that she'd been moved permanently to the breeding floor until she was one hundred percent pregnant. Even in their confinement rumours spread quickly and easily. Some people said Molly was from a well off family and they were going to use her as bait. Others said she had the right genes for making babies and a few deluded others said that Moriarty had taken her to marry him. Sherlock rolled his eyes at them all. She had been taken for breeding, plain and simple. More children, more loyal Westhrow citizens.

Two days later John approached for him with a letter from some authority or the other. Sherlock felt conflicted. He wanted to be happy as it meant he'd be away from constant prying eyes and around John more, who he trusted. But he was in the safety Molly should be having, and it made the excitement die.

Another little problem was that his rut had built up again and he had hoped to be able to release it before being cooped up with John. He wasn't lucky enough for another fight to break out and he was too late to cause one before John came for him.

Heads turned as they walked away together and Sherlock felt excited, but he shushed it away.

"That was fast."

"Ssh." John replied, ignoring the glare Sherlock sent at him. They reached the office and Sherlock was glad there was no one waiting to be treated. John opened the door and offered Sherlock to go first. Sherlock couldn't help huffing slightly, but slipped in before anyone could walk past and change their mind about it.

The room was quick becoming one of familiarity and safety and Sherlock inhaled through the nose, smelling the faint smell of people who had come in and out the past day or so.

John dug through a little drawer and pulled out a small budge. He pulled a while robe off the back of an idle chair and handed both to Sherlock. "Wear these, they'll know you're working here, instead of usual duties."

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, glancing at the medical coat. It couldn't have been hers though, he remembered the pink embroidery on the collar, this one was plain and it looked two sizes bigger.

"...She's not coming back. She's not allowed around any alpha now, myself included, besides...those assigned." It pained John to say the words out loud, and he pushed the uniform into Sherlock's hand so he could turn away to his desk to get his bearings. Sherlock stayed silent to allow him the moment of privacy and waited awkwardly until John turned back around with a strained smile.

"Ready to learn the basics?"

"Yes. And thank you." Sherlock added as humbly as he could. John nodded, and they began to work. Sherlock knew plenty about the human body and injuries and treatments. He knew a lot, more than many of the people here did. But he kept his mouth shut and listened as John explained how to do this, and how to do that. John was a smart and competent man, but his mind was elsewhere and Sherlock found himself wishing it wasn't. It was an embarrassing thought, but he found himself craving for his attention again.

Though embarrassing, it was only in reason. He was still rutting and his first extreme sexual encounter had been with John whom he saw now as an ally. It was obvious he'd look to John for more help with his rut, he trusted only him and he was not stupid enough (or desperate, yet) to let a soldier get their hands on him.

As he sat and thought about John's hands on him, John was thinking about where in the book of destiny it was written that he would make it a personal mission to look after lonely omegas.

There was only one person brought in that afternoon and John demonstrated to Sherlock how to clean a wound and bandage it properly. It was child's play and Sherlock had to fight not to sigh and roll his eyes.

When the man left John said it was time for them to clear up the equipment so it didn't get lost, but Sherlock thought everything was already lost and only found simply because they were the only bright and shiny objects in the room.

They packed away in silence. John looked a little more clear minded and Sherlock didn't bother to disrupt it.

Intentionally, at least.

From behind him John made a queer noise. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and spotted John looking at him from the side with a frown.

"What?"

"Er, nothing." John looked away, clearing his throat despite looking as if he didn't want to speak.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He turned to the doctor and dusted his hands lightly. "What's the face for then?"

John mashed his lips into a tight line and straightened a pile of papers. He sighed and turned to Sherlock, looking apologetic. "Sorry, just...I didn't stop to think about your rut. Being stuck in a room with you all day, you know."

The mentioned dampened Sherlock's mood slightly. "Ah, yes, of course...natural reaction."

John looked as if he was about to say something, then thought twice. He then coughed, and seemed to have found another topic. "Did a...did it help, that time?"

Well, almost.

"Yes, it did." Sherlock answered shortly. He didn't want to verbally elaborate, John had asked enough times by now.

"Good. I was- good."

Sherlock couldn't decipher John's behaviour. He frowned at the man, who was looking a little awkward. "I recall it left you with a problem." he said, adding fuel to the fire. He couldn't stop himself.

"Natural reaction is all." John answered, smartly.

Sherlock raised a brow at the answer. His eyes flickered over the shorter man. "You're tense."

"Well, there are a few things bothering me at the moment, besides the usual." John said, rolling his eyes without malice. He was about to suggest he escort Sherlock back to his cell, as much as it pained him to think of, like he usually did with Molly (which was even harder to think of) when Sherlock spoke.

"...Me too."

At first John didn't know what he meant. They stared at each other, and when it clicked John thought perhaps he had imagined it.

But Sherlock was standing his ground, gazing into his soul with those metallic eyes that caught him like a fly in a web. He didn't know how to respond, he wasn't sure he had heard it. He was certain he had stepped over the line despite having consent that other day. Sherlock had still been under heavy influence, he could very much insist that his consent wasn't sober and thus void. But Sherlock didn't seem as offended as John thought he'd be.

If anything now, Sherlock looked expectant. But John couldn't read minds, and already feeling irritable he made a questioning noise at the back of his throat seeing as his voice was hiding.

When Sherlock finally spoke, looking slightly put off, his voice was deeper than usual and John felt it hit him straight in the groin. "I don't think it would be wise for me to let my rut boil for another week."

"Oh, no, that would affect everyone." John said, blinking and babbling slightly as the words registered in his mind. He saw the small smirk dance on Sherlock's lips, but he was too surprised to point it out.

Sherlock took in a deep nasal breath. The air smelt of primarily of John. He felt equally as affected by his scent as John did by his. He was in rut, John would smell extra appealing right now. The man in question looked like he was trying to not smile, his ears turning red. Sherlock smirked inwardly, and dared to be bold.

"Do you mind if I... in here? It's the only privacy there is."

"No, course not. I'll um...be over here-"

"I want you to help."

John did a neck-snapping double take. Sherlock held his gaze as strongly as he could without blushing like a virgin. It wasn't a marriage proposal. It wasn't a love declaration. It was curiosity and hormones, no big deal.

"You do?" John asked, not unbelieving, but as if he was supportive of the mention and possibly in agreement.

"If you do." Sherlock replied. It took some thinking before being able to dare to offer such a thing. There was no serious escape plans dancing in Sherlock's mind, he couldn't concentrate on such things, so he opted to figure out his current dilemma first: his rut. It would end soon, he'd been here for over a week surely, but it was peaking again and he couldn't stop thinking about how good it was to have someone service him. He'd been worried at the time, a little uneasy, but now that he'd been there and done that and it didn't seem as big a thing now.

John wasn't a rebel, he was a smart decent man, and he was trustworthy. That was good enough reason to choose John to aid him through his rut, wasn't it? If John didn't want to he'd have made it clear by now, whether directly with words or indirectly with expressions and body language that Sherlock was usually gifted at reading.

But he didn't need to do that. John was clearly as willing as Sherlock was.

"Yes."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He swallowed, and felt his hair stand at the consent. He shifted, and set his face into a fake glare. "No sex."

John lifted his hands, his face still dancing with surprise. "That's fine. ...Are you sure?" John was asking himself as much as he was Sherlock. Sherlock was offering a round two of their storeroom incident and John couldn't think of a solid reason to reject the offer. The crafty man had brought up his rut as an excuse and while it was completely legit and John might have opened himself up for this, he hadn't expected to feel quite so willing at a moments notice. Without the guilt on his shoulders it felt exciting rather than difficult.

"Better you than anyone else." Sherlock said. Already he could feel the blood pooling between his legs. He had been holding off the effects all day the past few days. John had cleared it thoroughly from his system but he was still in rut. He wanted John to do it again. He wanted to know if this man actually enjoyed it. He wanted to know how much he trusted this man. He wanted to see the man this time.

"Okay." John looked more surprised than he did aroused and Sherlock wondered if he hadn't been sensual enough in asking. He had never tried to seduce anyone before, but he was offering a sexual confrontation, surely that was sensual incentive enough?

"Let's simulate sex though." he added, glancing John up and down before the man could blink. Though tempting, he didn't feel prepared for sex. He knew the technical details and going through all of that in here was not his idea of a good time. It was too intimate, it would make him too vulnerable. Also, having a dick shoved up his arse was something he'd actively tried not to think of since he'd learnt the meaning of being an omega.

John didn't seem to catch on to his inner reasoning and shook himself into action. "S-Sure. Wait, how?"

"Get on the chair." Sherlock ordered, turning John by the shoulders a little too excitedly and nudging him towards the desk. "No, the patient chair,"

"Alright," John said, sitting back on the chair in front of his desk, turning to towards Sherlock. He looked up and felt shorter than usual. "Erm, okay. I'm sitting."

Without ceremony or warning, Sherlock plopped himself down in John's lap, facing him and wiggling closer until he was sitting on the waking hardness. John swore under his breath and shifted to accommodate Sherlock easier. He looked up at the man who was too busy trying to get the position right to return it. His cock twitched as that now familiar heat pressed against it and his hands diverted straight to the sturdy thighs around his hips. This chair had no armrests, John realised, otherwise the position would be horribly uncomfortable.

A groan escaped John as Sherlock wriggled again, unknowingly rubbing delicious pressure to his constricted member. Again John looked up but Sherlock look so focus on something that should be so simple John felt maybe the man was forcing this. "You-fuck-You don't have to-"

Sherlock finally settled on a position he had good leverage with and then planted both hands behind John's shoulders on the top of the chair head. It was wooden and sturdy, allowing for a good grip beneath his fingers. "I'm affecting you. I'd rather not have you send me away for it. Or mount me out of the blue." John looked like he wanted to argue. "Why not fix it together, we both win."

The older man mouthed silently like a gold fish before he shrugged and readjusted his grip, sliding his hands up with a little more attention than needed to hook around the slim waist. "I'm fine with that, just don't turn around and say I seduced you."

Sherlock smirked openly and leaned slightly so his nose was an inch from John's. "No one seduces me."

Then suddenly without warning, much like Sherlock had done to him, John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. He pulled the warm eager body against his as if they were a mile apart and kissed his lips, allowing his eyes to fall closed.

But Sherlock pulled away, making John look up with a confused frown. The younger man looked shocked, his lips parted in a most beautiful way. John leaned back, but pointedly pulled Sherlock with him. "What?"

The lips closed into a tight line and Sherlock hesitated a few near unnoticeable seconds before he shifted, making John feel his weight, feel who was in control. He ignored the shiver that spread from John's hands and gave the sternest expression he could muster.

"I didn't say you could do that." It was too intimate.

"What, no kissing?" John frowned, but it was light-hearted. It was a rather significant step for him to take, kissing a male omega. In fact, kissing _anyone_ lately. Though the fleeting thought of kissing Molly sweetly had danced in front of his mind a very few times, he had the overpowering urge to kiss this omega until he was panting and grinding against him in mindless wanton. It had been such a long time since he'd felt such urges, and all because of this odd man.

Sherlock couldn't think of a proper reply that would keep questions at bay. Instead he made a noise in the back of his throat in confirmation and pointedly pushed forward his hips to rub against the warm lap he was seated in.

"Shit," John breathed, and dug his fingers firmly into the slight curves offered to him. He dropped the topic and pushed out his own hips. His cock was swelling fast with blood and he wondered if this time he was actually invited to join in releasing.

Shockingly, completely shockingly, Sherlock dropped his hands and reached between them. He popped open the button serving to hold John's pants up and stuck his hand straight into his underwear. John yelped and jumped beneath him, looking back and forth haphazardly. "Sherlock-you-are you-?"

"Shh." Sherlock shot back, half paying him back for being shushed earlier and half not wanting to lose his nerve. He pulled out the hardening penis and stared down at it. He had never been quite naked around other men simply because of his omega status. He wasn't shy, but he was a prince, an omega prince, thus it was highly frowned upon.

Straddling a man, of _his_ choice, and gripping his erect penis with the promise of some very arousing things Sherlock felt suddenly like a rebellious child again. If Mycroft saw him like this he'd fall right over. His mother would have given him the longest speech of his life and his father would have chopped of John's neck himself. It would be a complete scandal, the towns' folk would talk about it for weeks and no doubt he'd be considered loose.

But he didn't care what people thought. He was quite enjoying himself and Sherlock did what Sherlock wanted to. And right now, he wanted to undo this man as along with him.

All the worries in the world disappeared when the increasingly handsome man straddling John took him in his palm. His stomach clenched automatically and he groaned at the feeling. Reluctant to pass out from asphyxiation John made sure to breathe deeply, taking in the heady scent of an aroused omega. His body responded and his hips snapped up slightly, encouraging movement from his new playmate.

Back and forth Sherlock's eyes went, up down up down in time to his hand. Each stroke brought something new to John's face and Sherlock couldn't dare miss it. He pulled his fingers up and around, John hummed. He gave an experimental tug, John's tongue poked out. He paused to circle this thumb around the wet tip, John hips snapped. He slid his outstretched fingers right down to feather over the tight sacks pressed against on the chair, John squeezed his waist.

"God, Sherlock," John had never been fussed, foreplay or no foreplay, he was quite happy with either, as long as his partner was too. Now that he thought about it, a year was an incredibly long time without a sexual partner, especially going through his ruts and surviving. This was the last thing he expected to happen but if the younger man was willing, if perhaps a bit bossy, John decided maybe he could go along. Sherlock was needy and looking more attractive each time he peered up with those small eyes, John was beginning to wonder why he hadn't thought them beautiful on the very first gaze.

In a slow motion he rolled his hips, holding Sherlock down by the waist. It was unnecessary, but it made him feel good doing it instead of sitting still. Sherlock mistook it in his inexperience that John wanted it faster, and moved his hand to accommodate, glancing up and wanting to see his reward on the man's face. John's brows furrowed and his jaw fell slightly as he huffed, squeezing Sherlock to urge him on.

Leaning closely, Sherlock was inhaling as much of John's scent as John was his. Now that it was tainted with the scent of arousal it sent a shiver crawling through Sherlock from his neck down to his groin. His own hips twitched and he took the moment of wild need to release his own erection. He fumbled lightly with the waist band with one hand, pausing but not releasing John. A second later he was free and immediately stroked. The feeling was like a fresh wave of relief and he exhaled loudly, grinding his hips up into his hand.

Both men looked down between them, fixated on the dirty sight. A soft moan from John reminded Sherlock his cock wasn't the only one needing attention. He glanced back up at the other and without looking away, slipped his one hand around both their cocks. He had long fingers, big strong hands. It was useful in battle, one of the many reasons he was not afraid to get into a physical confrontation.

The moment their cocks touched John swore and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. He heard John murmur 'yes' so he squeezed them together before finding a good rhythm to stroke. His fingers massaged John's length as his thumb did his, and within seconds his hand grew wetter and wetter as they leaked. He was releasing a lot more fluid than John was but it was his rut, it was to be expected.

Sherlock braced his free hand on the chair over John and started to move his hips to meet his hand, stimulating them both and leaving John breathless. His heart was speeding like a train and each gasp of breath clouded his mind further. He built up the pace until he was thrusting against John. He leaned over to relieve some of the tension in his back, but that left him panting in John's ear, which was too much for the doctor.

"Shit, fuck, Sherlock-" was all the warning he gave before pushing away Sherlock's hand. He ignored the stilling of hips and frown thrown at him and in the very next second grasped the back of Sherlock's neck and threw as much of his weight as he could to topple them over.

It wasn't as elegant as John was used to but Sherlock was twice the weight of a woman and significantly taller than John himself. They hit the ground in front and John did his best to drop Sherlock down with as little impact as he could. Luckily Sherlock was still in touch with his body and braced for an easier landing to aid John, no longer frowning but looking up with eager eyes at his choice alpha.

New was exciting. This was new, so new, and Sherlock was pleased with his meagre attempts that sparked such desire from the usually calm man. From his straddling position John had ended up between his legs and he noted the frightening urge to push John away wasn't there. All he felt was warmth and desire. He lifted his legs and hooked them around John's waist amateurishly, and with a small hint of possession. He grabbed hold of John's shirt and saw the man looking at him with a tense expression before his face disappeared altogether and Sherlock felt hot lips against his once more.

No, Sherlock didn't want to kiss, kissing was intimate. Kissing was sweet, full of endearment and meaning. Sherlock didn't do endearment. But apparently John did, and forced a response by grinding his hips so that he pressed their cocks together against Sherlock's stomach. Out of need Sherlock's hips snapped up and joined John in a fresh rhythm of thrusting and there was no stopping it. It made him feel weak and tense at the same time. His fingers tightened around the material he was clutching and his heels hug into John's coccyx, but his face told a different story.

Feebly he tried to turn his head away and to push against John's chest but he might as well have whispered besides a wild ranting man. It went unnoticed and each stroke of John's cock against his made his stomach clench and his voice waver. He tried again, grunting against the lips pulling and devouring his own and tried to push with his hands instead of pull but John didn't seem to notice. The alpha had one hand propping him up and the other holding Sherlock's neck, fingers now twisted slightly in his hair to hold his head in place.

Sherlock felt a stab of panic. His body was reacting favourably in John's view and if he'd truly been without sex for a year it was dangerous to allow him to chase his oppressed desires like this. Sherlock had chosen the chair so he'd be on top and in control, and able to fill his curiosity of John's sexuality. But now, now he was back underneath the excited alpha, legs spread and presenting. Not good, not good, not good.

So Sherlock took the only escape he could manage; he bit John. It wasn't hard enough to draw blood but John jerked away with a cry. He shot Sherlock an extremely confused look as he pawed at his lip, as if oblivious to Sherlock's slight distress. Sherlock stared back at him, feeling a distance fear at attacking an alpha so, but when he remembered why he had done it he rolled them over with a grunt of effort. He faired no better than John as he was weak and trembling and struggling to move normally without wanting to thrust his hips, but dumped John onto his back and plopped on top of him.

At first he landed right on John's stiff penis and jumped up, feeling it through the thin material covering his rump. John made a loud brazen noise and moved his hips up to follow, but Sherlock shimmed back so he sat on his thighs instead. He couldn't present the opportunity for real sex. As good a man as John was, a sexually frustrated and tempted alpha male was not to be played with. At least, not in here.

The thought sobered Sherlock somewhat and he quickly dipped his hips and leaned over with his hands on either side of John's head. He finally looked down at the face of the doctor and almost purred.

"Has anyone told you you're actually quite handsome?" John huffed, his voice thick and his eyes small with desire. His hands found Sherlock's waist and he took a firm grip, pressing their bodies together.

"Not usually in such a tone." Sherlock replied softly, watching John intently and allowing the grip on his waist to grind them together.

"God," John muttered, looking as if he was indeed frustrated. "Do something." he growled, oblivious to the order in it. He was ready to burst and Sherlock was teasing him, dipping about slowly on his lap like John was the one in rut and vulnerable to tease. He wanted Sherlock so bad, he wanted anything he could take right about now.

The moment the order left John's lips Sherlock shivered and dropped his weight further down and began to rock. It was the first time an alpha had ordered him to do something in such a situation and while he didn't take lightly to be ordered about, he didn't mind it this time. He was glad John wasn't trying to take back the control and rewarded him with a fresh roll of their hips.

But it wasn't what John needed. He wasn't the one experimenting, he knew his limits and his needs and he wanted them seen to or he'd lose it. And not in a good way. He would never lower himself to raping anyone but if Sherlock continued dancing over him he'd have to hold him down and bring them both to completion before he snapped. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock.

One roll, two rolls, three rolls-it was not enough. He watched Sherlock watching him, as if studying him, increasing attention in places when he responded. Sherlock was trying to pleasure him, he realised, but it was not going to relax him, it was making him more and more hyped up. His hips thrust and he ground Sherlock down into his lap desperately, knocking together their erections, but it wasn't enough.

" _Let's simulate sex though."_

Sherlock's words rang through his mind and he groaned. Sherlock was doing a good job on the foreplay but rut wasn't a time for that. He appreciated the attentions, though Sherlock looked more satisfied with it than even he did, but he had to end it or he'd roll them over again and the Force would command him from there on. The Force was a phrase alphas used to explain the stupor they fell in when pushed to the limit sexually, it usually happened during rut, it was their version of The Last Straw. And if the Force took John, he'd surely step over the fine line that Sherlock had verbalised.

 _Simulate sex_ , that was easy enough.

"Lay against me," John panted, and pressed his hands into Sherlock for encouragement.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. Without really meaning to it came out as a challenge, and he ground harder to show he was doing it right, judging by John's everything.

"Sherlock," John panted, lifting his legs abruptly so that Sherlock slipped and slid right onto his member. "Lay against me." It was a direct order.

Sherlock was offended. He made a small noise when John brought up his knees and forced him onto his cock, holding him down. He struggled a little at the feeling of the member pressing against his backside and tried to sit up.

But John wasn't having any of it, and brought him down to his chest with a strong tug of his arm and another nudge of his knees with his feet flat on the ground. He snaked his one arm tightly around Sherlock's waist and the other hand at his neck, and pressed down the fidgeting male.

Sherlock's nature to be in control fought back and he pulled away with a hiss, but John held him down tight. "John," he snarled in warning.

"Don't John me," John replied as if whispering, and proceeded to shift around awkwardly to get himself and Sherlock in a good position as Sherlock struggled, "For God's sake stop moving!"

"No! I said no sex-!" Sherlock nearly cried, panic building as the alpha refused to release him. He squirmed harder against John's chest, until the man stilled beneath him and a soft kiss met his forehead.

"It's okay, it's okay, Sherlock. It's just me." John reminded, pointedly softening his grips but rubbing a circle on Sherlock's back to keep the man from jumping off altogether. Sherlock fell still as well and flinched when a second kiss pressed to his sweaty skin. He panted angrily, frowning to the side his face lay. "It's John."

John. John...it was only John. Why did that make it okay? What did it mean to Sherlock? Why did it make him rest against the male as requested? As thoughts swirled around his mind Sherlock groaned as his muscles shook. He was exerting more energy than he should be, than he had after the week of malnourishment. Omegas were to take it, relaxed on a surface as their partner fussed over them, not the other way around. Now that he was still he felt his bones creak and the pull to rest flat on John became overwhelming.

So he gave in. Slowly he eased his muscles to soften and gave his weight over, resting his right cheek on John's collar bone. His body cried out in relief, but his stomach tightened as he buried John's hard flesh between their bodies.

John lifted his hand from Sherlock's neck and reached to pet his hair. "There we go. It's okay, it's ok-"

"I'm not a gerbil," Sherlock breathed, stopping John's hand in its tracks. He didn't elaborate further, all John needed to know was he had boundaries that weren't to be crossed between them. ...By John, at least.

John pressed his lips together and took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling as Sherlock rose and fell with his chest. The man's weight was heavy, but oh so sweet. He slid his hand back to Sherlock's neck and gave it a sudden scratch of his nails. Sherlock reacted instantly and jerked against him, but it was not negative.

"Better?" he asked, sarcastically. He added a sensual rub down Sherlock's waist, and peeked down when the man fidgeted again. Sherlock peeked up in return from under his lashes, his eyes shining more stunningly than ever. No answer was given, so John sighed and reached down with both hands. He hooked them around the backs of Sherlock's thighs and made sure his feet were firmly on the floor.

Remembering where they were, John glanced at the door. No one came in this time of the afternoon but he didn't want to allow the chance. They'd have to finish soon, they'd wasted enough time.

Embarrassingly Sherlock's face turned pink when John dug his fingers into the back of his thighs for leverage. He was pressed so close he could feel the other penis twitching against him, and now John's grip was spreading his cheeks apart more than they already were from the position. If those fingers moved just a little more to the centre they'd ghost over his balls, and any more and they'd reach his entrance. He fought his natural reaction to become defensive and tried to relax, to trust this man, this John, and reminded himself that HE had initiated this.

"Now, please, don't bite me?" John then suggested. He was going to start their end, but he wasn't one for biting, kinky or not. In reply Sherlock pinched his arm and made him wince, then rubbed down against him pointedly. Those feline eyes didn't meet his, but John let him have his privacy. It was the best he'd get. Since when did John feel accustomed to a stranger's personality?

John braced himself, mentally as well as physically, and pulled Sherlock down as he started to grind up. He got them in the best possible position for them both to be stimulated, and Sherlock helplessly verbalised his with a deep moan. Said male stiffened but held on and dipped his hips down into the burning warmth pressing up onto him. The reaction was good and John took the consent to really go at it. There wasn't much to thrust at, it was the rolling of his hips that brought them pleasure as their leaking cocks pressed against each other and between their waists. There was no space between them. John could feel his shirt riding up, sticky from their pre cum.

As the pace quickened Sherlock started to participate again, swirling his hips down and humping disparately. Instantly, within seconds he could feel the coil inside him pulling tight. It was going to be glorious, he could tell, and he worked faster. He wanted it to be explosive, like those new inventions called fireworks. It already felt so good, so so good. His fingers were curled up in John's clothing, gripping like it was his lifeline. He could hear John breathing heavily beneath him but he couldn't lift himself even if he _was_ squashing the other, he'd given in and that was it, his body bucking on its own as he moaned along for the ride.

It almost felt sickeningly hot, John could barely get in enough air. But he reached his climax before breathing became a problem. He thrust his pelvis up as he pushed Sherlock's rump down right into his lap, remembering to squeeze on the pale neck to add a burst into Sherlock's system so they could finish together. Deep down in the back of his mind John imagined what it would be like to be thrusting into Sherlock and not against him, into his quivering body as he held him against his chest, naked as the day they were born.

The thought successfully kicked him straight over the edge and John came, groaning out aloud his pent pleasure. It had been months, long hard months of misery and fear and abstinence and avoidance of another, and now finally he could release it all.

The sound and feeling of John climaxing made Sherlock's eyes roll back. A second later the grip on his neck became painful and his breath was forced out as John squeezed him down desperately. The dominant action and sound of satisfaction was more than enough for Sherlock and his body jerked into release, adding to the sea between them John started. He made a strangled sound as he struggled to breathe and ground down frantically as he released against John who had become but a statue.

Angry panting tainted the air and slowly they slumped. Sherlock's weight doubled as he became boneless and John gasped as he struggled with shaky arms to tip the spent omega over. "Sherlock. Sherlock-please-move-"

"John." was all Sherlock's could say. It was all he could think. John. John. Kind John. Trustworthy John. Safe John. Friend John. Alpha J-

...Just John.

XxXXxXxXXxXx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten days in captivity~ 
> 
> Don't you just love crazy Moriarty


	7. Madam caught the Majesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rather like writing Moriarty and Irene.
> 
> Especially Morry
> 
> Also, Moriarty didn't have a particular reason for being the one to pull out Molly. He was bored, walking past the guy rounding up the girls and decided to 'help', just to scare some poor girls.
> 
> Oh, and I don't own Sherlock or it's characters

_**Chapter 7: Madam caught the Majesty** _

As it turned out, Sherlock was indeed as smart as he acted. John pulled his lips in an impressed manner more the next day than he had his entire life. Sherlock remembered everything he'd said about basic medical procedures and demonstrated a few he hadn't mentioned. The man explained everything he knew on the subject to keep John from worrying about his patients and John wondered just who Sherlock was. No handyman had such knowledge, or ego, so where did Sherlock get his?

They got along smoothly, personality wise. Sherlock opened up a little more, but that meant more quips and smart mouthed talk. John was patient, he could back down maturely when others wouldn't, and Sherlock loved to have the last word. It was as irritating as it was refreshing. Sherlock didn't seem nearly as worried any more of their imprisonment as John still felt.

But that was because Sherlock already decided he'd bother with that _after_ his rut. He'd get through it then devote his every thought to smarting his way out and alerting his brother so they could take down Moriarty before he could conquer any more small lands.

So right now...he'd explore John.

Sherlock knew his rut was almost over. He surely had to be almost two weeks in this hell hole and after their second encounter he didn't once feel the primal urge to mate. John had mentioned himself that his scent had died down significantly and was on the decrease. It was good, he hated the stupid rut. But it didn't stop him from mounting John again a day later.

"Sherlock-" John said through his panting as Sherlock attacked his neck, "You're going to get me worked up and-ow! Biting Sherlock! Biting- _you_ -need to-" he couldn't get out a proper sentence. He felt like _he_ was the desirable woman here. The same time as last time Sherlock came at him with sultry suggestions and even tried to stick the chair's back rest beneath the door handle so no one could get in. John stopped him as it was a bad idea because it would cause suspicion, but still found himself pressed against the wall with the jumpy omega nipping along his neck. He felt a few licks get in there too and groaned as his cock responded.

"Sherlock-"

"It's now or never," Sherlock warned. Tomorrow he might come to his senses and decide he had enough and didn't want to be touched from a mile with a stick. Till then, he wanted John's hands on him.

Because _he_ wanted it. His choice. His choice. …Not even stupid rut's choice.

"Say my name," Sherlock demanded, smelling down John's neck as the man gave in and slid his hands around his waist beneath the white coat. "Say it."

"Sherlock." John breathed, his eyes falling closed. He felt like he was at the mercy of an incubus. All of a sudden he had this gorgeous being pawing him like a gift sent from the heavens straight into his lap. Men constantly searched for such a thing, and here he'd found it. He almost felt like he'd rescued one of those cats that became devoted to you forever.

"Not good enough."

" _Sherlock_ -"

"Still-"

"Sherlock- _fuck_ -!"

There was just something about the way John said his name that made Sherlock excited. No one ever said his name in such a way. Usually it was in exasperation. The alpha pulled at his waist and lifted his face for a kiss, but again Sherlock turned away, opting to rub his face against his shoulder. His eyes were softly troubled as he looked around the room and he willed silently that John keep his mouth shut about it, and not mention it.

John however, just sighed. Feeling slightly mischievous from Sherlock, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock's exposed neck just to irritate him, and the omega followed through.

"Stop that." Sherlock hissed as he pulled away. John grabbed him and pulled him back, acting oblivious, "What?"

"Kissing me." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Each time he pulled John's hand free it only latched onto somewhere else, making him repeat it. Was it too much to ask for him to dictate every single thing they did? Gosh.

"What's wrong with kissing?" John asked, but pawed apologetically anyway when he saw Sherlock's expression.

"I just don't want to." Sherlock said, matter of factly.

"Why not?" John frowned. He didn't see anything wrong with kissing.

Before Sherlock could verbalise that he didn't want to explain, footsteps clapped outside the door and the handle turned.

Sherlock was out of John's arms in a second and wiping down a set of tools he'd already done in the next. John was startled and delayed in looking as nonchalant as Sherlock but did his best. A guard strode in and John dramatically threw his arms up in a stretch.

"Oi, we got a new batch of omegas coming in tonight, you're workin' late." said the guard as John acted extra surprised at his entry.

"Oh? I mean oh-er-yes, of course." John straightened his coat professionally and nodded, clearing his throat quietly. The guard nodded stiffly at him then glanced at Sherlock who hadn't looked up once, then took his leave.

When the door closed John groaned and dropped his face to his palms, dragging them up his forehead. "Great..."

The tools were quickly forgotten and Sherlock frowned, bringing a finger to his chin in thought. "I wonder which town they are going to hit."

"Those poor people." John mourned.

"Have they been training the captives for battle? Or will they use original Westhrow military members to do it?"

"I don't know. Maybe? Who cares. Someone needs to start a revolt." It was a useless idea, no one on their side had enough power.

As Sherlock drifted into thought John huffed and felt whatever giddiness Sherlock had caused him to die away. The male didn't look like he was going to saunter back into his arms either. He sighed heavily and went straight to his desk to fall into his chair. He looked around to judge what new equipment he'd need from the storerooms as Sherlock paced.

Sherlock didn't think they'd use the prisoners for battle, not just yet. They'd need training and lots of brainwashing and threats to get them to do such a thing. Maybe they'd be ready for the final battle against England, maybe that was their purpose, and the Westhrow army would simply recruit them for the time being.

"Guess we'll finish later then? Or...tomorrow?" John hinted, feeling a little pouty that they'd been disrupted. You can't give someone a treat and pull it away.

"Finish what? Shush, I'm thinking."

John stuck his tongue in his cheek but kept quiet as Sherlock paced around his with finger tips pressed together against him lips. Eyes narrowed and darting around, John wondered what on earth he could be thinking about.

In a small office connected to a large workhouse, a few people sat around, only two locked in conversation. Two men and a woman, dressed smartly and high ranking members of the Westhrow rebel party. In fact, the highest ranking one could say.

There was a glass window against one of the walls that presented a good view of the workhouse where helmets were being mass produced for the army. The office was used to work out how much was need, how much was being made, what needed to be brought in for production, how many hands were available on a certain day, and so on. It also held files upon files of who they had in their grasp, a general record.

Staring out the window at the miserable workers, the woman gazed around with boredom. Her favourite lover was currently sick, she had her boss complaining like a bitch about the same topic for hours simply because he couldn't be bothered to change it and she was trying to figure out how she could seduce the King of England. She'd much rather personally tend to her lover and listen to her boss ranting than hop in bed with the constipated King of England, but only she could do it, she was the best spy Moriarty had, and she was proud of it. But that didn't mean she was happy about having to throw herself at the king like a love sick virgin in need of tainting.

Her eyes trailed over the monotonous faces. There were so many pretty women working but a wall away. There was no direct door from the office into the workroom, the window was just for authorities to peek and see that work was being done, but she didn't mind having to walk out the room and around a short corridor to choose yet another lover. She was lucky, she thought, the female omegas bowed faster to her will than the men she worked with. She didn't blame them, the men could be horrid, so she usually picked out the best for herself before claims could be laid and those sent to the breeding floor.

A new batch had been brought in and it was a large amount. The town they'd pillaged had been one nearer to England than ever before but their forces were themselves nearer than ever before to overthrowing the England kingdom.

So Irene sat on the window seat staring around at the women, fantasizing about who she'd like to pick out, but drifting back to ponder if her lover would prefer hazelnut or Turkish delight chocolate.

But at one line she stopped and squinted, singling out a single person she hadn't looked at properly simply because he was male. Her mind jogging to connect a name and a face, and when it did she leaned forward, almost knocking her head on the window. "Jim."

"I suppose I could skewer him and feed him to these rats, but that takes the joy out of-"

Jim Moriarty truly thought he was a god. She stood abruptly, never taking her eyes of the man working between two women, explaining something to them when the guards looked away. "Jim." she cut in.

"WHAT? You have a better idea?" Moriarty asked, looking at her with wide crazy eyes. She turned her neck to see him, used to his erratic nature, and tapped a red nail lightly against the glass.

"No, but I think you'll want to see this."

Moriarty pulled a face a child did when reluctant to go to school and threw his feet up on the table pointedly. "Unless it's Mycroft's head on a rusty tetanus infected platter I am not interested."

A smile drew across Irene's face and she turned back to the glass, tilting her head to see him better. "How about his little brother?"

The childish waving of Moriarty's head and feet stopped in an instant. "What?"

Irene peeked over her shoulder with a superior look. "I think his younger brother is here, I just saw him."

Moriarty regarded her with doubt. His right hand man Sebastian sat nervously; it was never good when Moriarty was troubled. "That's impossible, how could we have him? Without knowing?"

"I'm sure it's him, he's got a memorable face."

"You're talking bullshit. One of your bitches must have hit you too hard last night."

The insult didn't land and Irene pressed her face back to the glass, inhaling urgently through her nose when the man turned to look at the woman to his left, which faced their window. He was far back but just close enough that she could confirm it. "Holy shit, it _is_ him."

"Bullshit!" Moriarty roared with a slam of his fist to the desk. Both Sebastian and Irene jumped and he swung his legs over and marched right up behind her with an intimidating stance. "Where? _Where_?"

"There!" she pointed hurried, tapping her nail on the glass. "The tall one by those women, the bolt section."

Moriarty squinted as if looking at a speck on the glass itself. "...That looks like a street rat."

"It has to be him, the palace is full of his portraits." He had strange face, and Irene had always admired strange faces so she'd never forgotten his. She couldn't forget anything when it came to the royal family.

"Have you met him?" Moriarty asked as if he wanted her to say no so he could prove her wrong.

"No, he was always conveniently out. But those cheek bones… I can feel them from here."

Moriarty couldn't dare to believe it. It was preposterous, he'd have to kill every single idiot working here for not realising they had the baby prince of England locked up. He could have been king by now. "It can't be him. Sebastian!"

Said man shot up from his seat. "Yes, sir?"

"Call in Anderson, you two check the record files for a _Sherlock Holmes_." He emphasised the name, bouncing his forefinger and thumb in the air as if Sebastian was slow.

"Yes sir!"

As the man hurried out Moriarty rejoined Irene whose breath began to fog up the window. He grabbed her scarf and wiped it over the window, daring her to say anything. "Everyone who missed that is going to be skewered."

"This could change everything." She whispered, staring ahead unblinking.

Moriarty sighed heavily. He dropped the scarf like it was nothing and turned to pace. "It's just too good to be true. I refuse to believe it. Can't. It's not that easy. If it were, I'd be God, not king."

The door swung open and Sebastian entered with the guard Anderson in tow. Anderson gave his greetings which were expectantly ignored. They hurried to open a few drawers of files, and Sebastian looked up hesitantly. "Er, sir what status level?"

"Omegas and betas obviously! Who do you think is down there right now?!" Moriarty screeched, making Irene roll her eyes as she picked up her scarf, and the two men jump to search.

"Y-yes sir!"

"If that is him, we've hit the jackpot." Irene said, turning to a very huffy Moriarty.

" _IF_ that's him, I might just throw a ball."

She couldn't help grinning. "Imagine the ransom? You never hear about how much the Holmes boys love each other but I know Mycroft and he would give anything for his little brother. Well, almost anything, the cold bastard."

"I told you he was the Ice Prince." Moriarty sing-songed. "Oh but Mrs. Adler, a ransom is _waaaay_ too boring. I'd rather keep him here, for work, work him to death. A ransom will still be viable even if he's cripple. Maybe even dead…"

Moriarty drifted away into his thoughts, leaving Irene to debate the ransom herself. It was quiet for a while besides the shuffling of paper, until it too stopped. "Sir, there is nothing?"

Irene approached them, glancing at the files. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The dominatrix felt stumped. "No, no this can't be right, I am sure it's him."

Moriarty fell back into his chair with a 'thank-you-for-getting-my-hopes-up' expression. He kicked his feet back up and linked his fingers, then pointed them towards the glass. "Well then. You've never met him, so go say hi."

"No, he does know my face."

"Then disguise yourself. You can't rile me up for nothing."

Not important enough to disobey Moriarty, Irene threw her scarf around her neck and straightened out her jacket. "Alright! Don't get your corset in a knot. I'll be right back." She muttered a few curses to herself and gave their leader a tight smile that said 'are-you-happy-now?' as she turned to walk out. Anderson opened the door for her and she strode out into the hallway. As she went she placed on her scarf until it concealed her face leaving only her eyes bare. She fixed that with a pair of glasses, and turned up the collar on her expensive jacket just in case. She knew Mycroft would have shown her face to his dear little brother, the beautiful woman he would have the honour of marrying, but with her face hidden now he wouldn't know it was her. …IF it was him.

Both determined and excited she entered into the workroom, nodding to the guards who both knew and feared her by now. Her entry gained attention and she received a sea of gazes from those closest. With a smile spreading across her face, Irene began her walk down the isles of petty omegas. She glanced at the window to the office but no one was standing there, she could imagine Moriarty brooding at his desk and telling himself dreams were for the stupid. Well, she'd show him stupid, she knew what she saw.

It was most odd for Sherlock to hear the clicking of heels after such a long time away from anyone who wore such items. He looked up to the sound and saw a woman standing above everyone else, and it was painfully obvious she was not a prisoner. But the moment he lifted his head and saw her, the woman to his right, Sarah, smacked his arm.

"Don't look." She whispered, keeping her head down.

"Why?" he whispered back, but looked away from the mysterious woman.

"That's _The Woman_. Don't catch her eye."

The explanation was horribly lacking in usefulness as he'd never heard of anyone so named _The Woman_ , he felt more irritable than usual. She must be a rebel, an unsavoury person if he was being told not to catch her eye, but he wanted to know who she was and why she decided to barge into the work area out of the blue.

"She takes women," Sarah added, listening with worried eyes to the footsteps in the background, "She's a horrible alpha."

Well, that was enough to get him by. Sherlock risked another glance and saw the woman glancing around at the females who did their best to keep away from her gaze. Most of them seemed to know who this woman was. Sherlock knew female alphas were bad, but could they be worse than men? He'd rather prefer being pulled out by a female alpha, if push came to shove in _that_ department.

He was highly tempted to keep his nose up and possibly give her a dirty look, but he kept his gaze away for Sarah's sake, clearly she didn't want the woman near her. In the background the clicks of heels grew closer, and closer, until Sarah was staring at her work blankly with white fists. Sherlock's curiosity spiked when those clicks started approaching directly to their left, and he toyed with the idea that she was coming for him. Maybe she was sadistic and tortured the omegas, maybe she felt like a male today, more grounds for humiliation.

The idea grew stronger when he realised she was a mere length away. It was impossible to resist, and he looked up to the side, seeing nothing familiar but a deliberate mask. _The Woman_ 's glasses and scarf hid her face and revealed nothing, making him more curious and frustrated. And then, he felt as if he'd caught her eye, even through the glasses. He knew where her eyes would be and judging by her angle, the slight delay in her steps and the extra shift to the left it was obvious she was looking at him. Almost as if time slowed dramatically as she walked by, Sherlock followed her with his eyes, as she openly did his with the turning of her head, but it still wasn't slow enough to figure anything out.

Sarah stiffened significantly as _The Woman_ passed them by, leaving behind a heavy scent of perfume and odd alpha scent. It was almost too heavy and Sherlock scrunched his nose up, feeling offended if she'd done that to mark him. It didn't smell familiar, only unpleasant. But the woman didn't turn back and exited through another door at the end of the isle, leaving the entire room confused, guards included.

As soon as she was in the corridor and away from any eyes Irene ripped off her scarf and glasses with a strangled noise and ran back to the office, inhaling deeply even though the male's scent was now only in her mind.

She knocked over Anderson who was too slow in openly the door and threw her scarf down on Moriarty's table, grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. "It's him! I bet you my legs, it's him!"

Moriarty stared at her blankly, but not in the intimidating manner that frightened everyone. He was thinking, pondering, and that was better than seething and brooding. Sebastian looked down despairingly at the files. "Sir, I swear, there is nothing."

Irene flapped a hand at him, and stalked up to lean her palms on the table. "No, it's okay. If he is relate to Mycroft even a little bit then there is no doubt he is as smart as they say. An enemy to Westhrow would lie about their identity if caught by rebels."

As if he'd heard nothing she just said, Moriarty lifted his palms and pressed them together as if in it held an elixir. "Sherlock Holmes...in my hands..."

Irene grinned again, and tapped his booted foot. She felt incredibility smug and giddy and hurried over to the window to look at the prince of England. "You very well may have won, congratulations."

"I am going to have to reward you double for your good spotting. Let's get him in here…-No! No, I'll wait…"

She laughed at the state Moriarty was in, having a hard time believing it herself. But it _was_ him, she knew that face, those piercing eyes, those bow lips. "I told you, make me Queen and we'll be even."

His eyes remained wide even with his expression blank. "Oh fine, Queen it is. But don't expect me to help you out of motor vehicles."

The crowd below didn't seem to see her by the window, or they were simply trying not to look. "Little Holmes… he's an omega...I never would have guessed." It was obvious as he was omega or beta because that was who was working in the workroom. But she'd dared it and all but brushed past him, sucking in that familiar weak scent of a male omega and the blood of the royal family. It made her toes curl in her shoes and rose up the most strong desire to rake her fingers through his hair and pull his head back, exposing that priceless neck to mark it herself and drag him along for dear Mycroft to see his little brother in such a beautiful state before Moriarty ended him.

"Omega?" Moriarty parroted, his voice high-pitched, "What, and you didn't find that out during your trips to the palace as Mycroft's beautiful wife-to-be?"

"They kept their personal business very quiet. Like I said I hadn't the chance to meet him." She then smirked, recalling the pitiful state the prince was in. Hair filthy and tousled, face dirty, bowed in the hands of Westhrow and among the omegas… "No wonder he hides from me, he's a pitiful omega."

Moriarty snorted. "Hides? Omegas are always out looking for attention. I bet Mycroft kept him locked up for that reason. Can't have the prince frolicking like a whore."

The gears of thought cranked around and around in Irene's mind, contemplating the shrewd and profitable ideas she was so very good at. "...Jim...do we have any male omegas in the breeding floor?"

Honestly Moriarty hadn't a clue, he didn't bother with that section and left it to his workers. He shrugged apathetically. "I don't think so, why?"

"Do you realise what this means?" she turned to him, expression holding back the bubbling in her chest.

"You'll tell me anyway, do it fast."

"The prince of England is down there, he's our captive and very much omega. If we kill Mycroft that's all fine and dandy, but if we take Sherlock with us, we could make you king lawfully, no other land or person could challenge it."

The man leaned over in his chair and pulled a frowny face, "I like the bombing ideas better. Besides, little whore-Holmes isn't going to hand over the keys to the throne."

"He won't have to, you'll earn it."

Irene engaged him in a meaningful stare, but he was still rather stuck on thinking up ideas on how to present himself to Mycroft with the prince in tow. "...Sorry you lost me. I'm still trying to register that we have a royal down there."

Heels clicked loudly as Irene stalked up towards him looking serious. "Jim, listen to me. If you get a child on him and Mycroft is dead it will put you next in line for the throne!"

An odd expression fell over Moriarty's face and he looked at Sebastian as if the man would explain her words to him. He dramatically looked back at her when she smacked his shoe with a book. "If he bears his own heir instead of impregnating another it will bind his position as only a prince or a Queen. He will never be King if he gets pregnant, but that man who impregnates him..."

For a full five excruciating seconds Moriarty stared at Irene until she grew nervous. But he laughed, hollowly, a good sign none the less. "You never fail to remind me why I keep you around."

A silent sigh of relief escape Irene and she raised her palms. "See? Simple. I was thinking of putting the brat in the breeding program just to rip out whatever attitude he has but I am sure you can do it anyway, and it will make you King."

"Rightful King of England… But I never liked going by the book. And I thought you wanted to be Queen?"

"I can wait until he has birthed. Poor man will have died from natural complications, and I'll step in to raise his child and be Queen." she said as if speaking of her honeymoon. Sebastian and Anderson shared a knowing look, that she would make the perfect tyrannical wife to the perfect tyrannical king.

Moriarty however, snorted like a pig. "You and children? Oh but I do like this plan though, I'll kill Mycroft, chain up his little brother and take the throne… Crimson or Royal Blue for the council chamber?"

"Crimson, of course." Irene smirked, wiping her hands on her dress.

"Well, this changes things a lot." Moriarty said, glancing at the window.

Irene lifted up her scarf again and wrapped it around her neck as she always did when about to leave. "I'd say we start as soon as possible. The sooner he's pregnant the sooner he can join his brother."

Moriarty pulled a comical face and rolled his head back against the leather as if tired. "What, tonight? Give me a second here, I don't even know how to break it to him." he added with mock sympathy that made Anderson smirk. Irene on the other hand, was completely serious. More so than Moriarty, who would rather do it his way but left the woman to her schemes as they were usually helpful anyway.

"Oh, I can see to that. In fact, my skills might come in handy for this. You might never want to tell the kid how he came to be."

Moriarty scoffed to himself and looked back towards the window with a mutter. "Your father would turn in his grave if he knew how you turned out to be."

Irene pursed her lips at him, but collected her glasses and turned to Anderson. "Anderson, do you mind fetching him?"

"Of course not ma'am." He stepped forward, and followed her to the window.

"See that tall one?"

"Oh, I know him. The one with the grey eyes."

"Yes him. Tell no one who he is, same goes for you Sebastian." She looked for a nod of confirmation, then turned back to Anderson. "Take him to Moriarty's room, I'll be there in an hour's time to prepare him. Stand guard, make sure he does not get out and no one goes is. And for the love of God don't touch him, you heard our plan."

Anderson clicked the heels of his shoes with a formal salute. "Yes, ma'am." Just as he turned to leave a siren rang, signalling that the work hours were done, and the crowd beyond the glass rose.

Irene waved him off. "Go on. Don't tell him our plans either." The man nodded and left to catch up to the sea of bodies. Irene hummed happily to herself and grabbed the idle whiskey glass and pushed it noisily towards Moriarty. "Well, you'd better have a drink, King-"

"Do have him tied down." He cut in, staring now with a blank stare at the people vacating the workroom. "I have no time to be struggling and begging for cooperation..."

"I think a struggle is sexy." _The Woman_ held back a grin, but it was not infectious to Moriarty, as usual.

"My sadism lies outside the bedroom." He quipped.

She sighed and turned away, gesturing for Sebastian to open the door. "Don't I know..."

To John's utter frustration, he could not stop wondering about Sherlock when he wasn't buried in work. A delay in all kinds of stock made it impossible to do his duties. The truck carrying equipment, including medical supplies, had broken down a few hours away and so the guards were happy to point out both he and Sherlock were to work in manufacturing for the day. They were separated and for each moment apart John found himself wondering about the younger man. Was he okay? Who was he with? Did he hurt himself working again? What was he thinking of? Was anyone thinking about him? It was most distracting for John, he scolded himself for the sudden attachment he found he had. He tried to distract himself by thinking of Molly, but all that did was make his chest tight.

The day was over and it was time to head in for the night. By now the guards all knew him and he walked slowly back to his room, half hoping to see Sherlock, or even Molly on the way.

What he did see, was one of the ugly faces of the more detestable guards right after they knocked into him. He stumbled aside, and apologized out of habit. "Oh, sorry."

The guard, Anderson, stumbled slightly too, and was about to walk off when he did a double take at John and poked him in the chest. "Hey, where is your little helper?"

John blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"That stuck up omega bitch I see with you all the time, where is he?" Anderson asked, straightening up in a manner that was supposed to be intimidating with his hands on his hips.

"He's...why do you want to know?" John squinted, and felt a protective surge towards Sherlock just from those insulting words alone. He resisted the powerful urge to look Anderson up and down. He may remain docile but he wasn't afraid of them. He had people to look after, otherwise he'd surely be throwing punches all day, punishment or not. It grated his nerves the way Anderson looked down on him. Was he supposed to feel intimidated by a beta? Because he didn't.

"Where is he?" Anderson asked, stiffly.

"I don't know." John replied in the same manner.

"Keeping him to yourself are you? Well, Moriarty will have your head if you've fucked him."

John did a double take. "Excuse me? I haven- ...Moriarty wants Sherlock?" His heart thumped into an ice block. Anderson seemed to sense it and a nasty grin flashed onto his face.

"Oh, so you know who he is then?"

"Well, I fill out the forms so yeah." John frowned, stepping back as Anderson stepped forward.

"And you kept that to yourself? What did he offer you to keep quiet? Money, land? _Himself_?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." What the hell was the man going on about?

"Just tell me where he is, Madam Adler needs him elsewhere."

"Where?" John asked, barely stopping to recall the name Adler.

With a nasal snort Anderson stepped forward, like a bull stating his presence, and looked down slightly at John. The man couldn't help himself. The doctor had always annoyed the heck out of him with his goody-two shoes attitude around the trash they brought it. He'd been looking for an excuse to beat the man and seeing as how cosy he'd gotten with the prince of England, there was even more fun to be had in the situation.

"He is not yours. Don't think because you are an alpha you have rights. Mr. Moriarty is going to breed that royal bitch for himself and soon he'll be King of England. Don't worry, I'll see to it you see him again. When he is boneless and bent over-"

Anderson didn't see the fist coming. John didn't realise he'd threw it until it connected with Anderson's skull. The impulse was from raw instinct, packed incredible strength that Anderson wasn't ready for. He knocked head first straight into the wall besides them with a horrid thud before slipping and landing sprawled to the floor. John jumped away as he waved his fingers, and made a small peep when the red anger faded and he realised what he had done.

He looked around worriedly, and back to Anderson who was as still as a statue. The man's words replayed in his head and his fingers found their way into his hair as panic begun to choke him.

"Sherlock."

XxXXxXXxXXxXxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO JAWN WHOOOO AH SHIT YOU DOOMED ALL OF YOU


	8. Free But Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex, sex, sex happens tralallalala
> 
> Warning, smut. Please forgive typos. Point them out if you feel like being a nazi. And I meant word typos, not whole grammar lectures

_**Chapter 8: Free but Yours** _

Sherlock managed to elude the guards with some witty comments and a sickeningly submissive face. A few lies later he was on his way to John's room, or rather their little medical office, hoping to catch him before everything was shut down. He had just made it back out the empty office when John came hurtling at him. He wanted to tell John about the odd appearance of _The Woman_ and see if John knew anything about her, then share a bit of information about the base's layout that he gathered from corridor signs and the guards' loud mouths, but the look on John's face was almost frightening, even for Sherlock himself.

"John-?"

"We have to leave." The doctor blurted, grabbing onto Sherlock's arms roughly. They both stumbled from it, and Sherlock's interest peeked substantially. And folly fell from his mind and he grabbed a hold of John in return, leaning slightly to look him in the eye.

"What? Why? What happened?"

"Quickly, we have to leave! They'll send more after you." John pulled on Sherlock roughly, having a vague idea of where to go but holding the suffocating feeling that they were about to die. No one escaped alive. He knocked out Anderson, the worst guard, Sherlock was being targeting and by Moriarty himself. He was going to pass out.

"John, what are you talking about?"

"There is no time to explain Sherlock, you have to get out, _escape_!"

"Tell me why!" Sherlock raised his voice, risking it, but it got John to look at him, to _see_ him.

Sherlock looked so calm, how could he be so calm? He didn't know John knew, but John felt he shouldn't have to, he should just listen because this was no joke. "...Moriarty wants you. He wants to breed you. He sent Anderson. I can't let that happen, not again, you have to run, quickly! I don't know how long before they realise Anderson is down-"

"You killed him?" Sherlock gawked, getting on John's frayed last nerve.

"Yes. No. I don't know, I knocked him out!"

Sherlock paused, his eyes softening against John's. "For me? You're doing this for me?"

"Yes. Why is that shocking?"

John was more the man Molly had said. The situation quickly became clear, at least the technicalities, and Sherlock felt a sharp stab of dread knowing Moriarty knew he was here. Or at least, was looking for whoever they thought he. He grabbed John's wrist, and spoke as clearly as possible. "...Come with me."

John frowned, looking confused and afraid, and opened his mouth to speak but there was no time. Sherlock cut him off. "John, come with me. You'll be in trouble when he wakes up."

Though there was absolutely no plan of escaping, his heart still took into count the people stuck with them. "But...these people?"

"We'll come back for them." Sherlock swore, and he meant it.

"Sherlock." John's eyes were wet, he was suddenly overwhelmed by so many emotions, he didn't know if to grab a gun or to drop and cry. Sherlock's behaviour was confusing him further and every second felt one closer to a herd of soldiers bustling into the corridor to shoot him dead and seize Sherlock.

Sherlock squeezed his grip until it made John wince. He forced eye contact, keeping himself as calm as possible. "Trust me, we will come back."

"…Okay."

The doubt and fear was written plainly over John's face, so Sherlock kept his hidden. He could do whatever he put his mind to, and now the part of biding his time was over. It was time to run. He nodded to the man and turned, pulling John with him into a full run. John's height impeded them only slightly, his hesitance doing more damage. Sherlock had a strong idea of where to go, and John cursed when he found out. But it was the best way of not getting caught.

"Wait." John huffed, pulling Sherlock to a shoulder-wrenching halt.

"What?" the prince panted, ducking against the walls at the distant sound of synchronised footsteps.

"Molly, I can't leave her."

Sherlock turned his neck to look down at John, into those pleading blue eyes, and he wondered how he could have ever seen any malevolence in them. "…Okay, fine. Which way is the breeding level?"

John knew exactly where the breeding level but it was a slight problem getting there without being seen. There seemed to be more guards than usual hurrying around and no doubt because of them.

There was no time to ask John what Anderson had said to him but the wait was killing him, even as they ducked and dived literally for their lives.

As it turned out the breeding level was only half a staircase upwards. The poor people chosen to be bred were at least kept in their own rooms, much like John's, small and boxlike, but with a square hole in the door with bars so you could see inside. John ran forward first, sticking his nose between the bars as he called out her name. Sherlock shushed him as he trailed along, watching the coast for the guards that should have been around, as well as the layout and form of the doors.

"Molly!" John hissed desperately, his heart breaking at each woman he passed.

Then a soft call came from a few doors down, stopping both their hearts. "John?"

"Oh, Molly," John hurried to her just as a small hand reached out the bars and he grabbed it, kissing it fiercely. "Oh, God, Molly, I am so sorry…"

Sherlock stopped a few feet away as he watched John, and realised it hurt to see it. It hurt to see the crippling pain on John's face, the trembling tone of his voice, the utter hurt, and then the soft helpless cries of Molly as John's emotions affected her.

But they couldn't do this here, not now, they had to escape. He willed his legs to move after swallowing that thickness in his throat and pulled John away by the shoulders. "Molly, step away from the door." He said, and watched her hurriedly move to the side. He took a quick deep breath and got into a riding horse stance, and then with a concentrated thrust he kicked down the door. The wood was sturdy enough to keep in a prisoner, especially a weak one, but not of the best quality.

Molly shrieked and flattened up against the wall as the door fell in. John rushed passed in a second later and pulled her into a bone crushing hug. Sherlock kept a stoic watch on either side of the corridor while actively avoiding all the hopefully faces peering through their bars. He wanted to tell them that they must go back to sleep and keep their heads down and he'd come back with an army for them, but he had a feeling John would tell him to shut up and start apologising instead.

Before he could get edgy the pair appeared and it was good to see Molly actually clothed, even if it was in a silk nighty. She clung to John as if the floor would swallow her if she let go. Hair unkempt, gown short and tattered and her eyes void of that shining light, but it still held hope.

"We need to move fast." He advised, and gestured for them to follow. As they left the other women cried out and reached for them, and as expected John called out apologies and promises to return. Molly was silent and looking happy just to be with John.

They'd caused a rather loud enough noise and it attracted attention, but Sherlock was back to his excellent thinking capabilities thanks to John and swerved them around the corners well without getting caught. John had to lead the way back to the mortuary at one point when Sherlock's knowledge of the layout was depleted, and Molly panicked when it was time to travel down the hatch.

As it turned out, there was a simple yet ghastly way out. Many captives died every day and there had to be some where to put them, and Sherlock didn't think they were given the honour of a burial. And he was right. Turns out when a captive died they were dropped down a shoot into the flowing torrent of a river. It was a gamble, but it was a clear way out that no one would be guarding. Sherlock wouldn't have known about it hadn't the guards slipped, and so the other prisoners would never have known either, it was there biggest chance.

The mortuary was empty and unguarded so they rushed in, and they quickly found the hatch door that could easily have been missed. John was shocked, he hadn't thought to ask where the dead where taken, he just watched in grief and focused on those still living. There was little time for fear and Sherlock tried his best to be understanding but he had to get out, without or without them.

But his heart slyly made sure he did. With apologies he forced Molly up into the hatch when her legs failed in strength and firmly promised her she'd live. They could hear the rushing water from down below and Sherlock prayed it wasn't a lie. With a scream she let herself slip down the shaky metal tunnel and shoot out into the river below, already being pulled down stream. John was next, Sherlock decided, and had to exert more force to get him up with a loud "I'm right behind you!"

John went down quicker than Molly, and as soon as he managed to come up for air he screamed for her, squinting in the darkness. Sherlock hadn't stopped to think how dark it would be, but it couldn't be helped. He left nothing to chance and jumped up into the hatch, and dropped down, slamming the lid shut as he dropped sharply into the ice cold water below…

Thanks to God's grace they managed to make it to land and find each other relatively fast. Molly was shaking like a leaf, already weak and now struggling against the cold. It was shocking to see the base from outside, built against the mountain, but Sherlock ushered them away just in case they were found to have gotten out. It was unlikely, but they needed to put as much space between them and the base as possible.

And that's what they did. It was relatively early in the night when they'd escaped and started to run. They ran and ran, through the trees, up the hills and down across the fields. The night was filled with frightening noises but nothing stopped them, nothing attacked them, there had to be a God after all. Within an hour Sherlock recognised a landmark and then had them continue in the direction of his home, giving no explanation to the unasked questions. For hours they struggled along, walking and walking until finally, Molly could barely make it any further.

"Please, I can't, my legs ache." She called, leaning onto John twice as much now than before.

"She's right, we have to stop." John said, his own feet aching like they were coals. Sherlock had been leading the way the whole time and stopped to face them with pity.

"We need to find shelter." He said, and continued walking on. The pair behind him moaned and groaned but followed after reluctantly for a while longer until John realised he wouldn't be able to support her any further.

"Sherlock, Molly can't continue."

"We have to." Sherlock said, but he knew they didn't have the discipline to continue through the night like he did. But to their luck, just down the valley sat a tiny dark house. His spirits lifted and he pointed. "There! It's a house."

John stepped forward eagerly, but Molly had reached her limit, and dropped to her knees with a helpless cry. She tipped over to sit on her backside and weakly gathered up her knees and cried heartily into them, putting even John at a loss of what to do. He struggled to comfort her, knowing nothing could be said or done to fix the horrors that happened to her. Her frame shook and she cried choked sobs that would make the trees bow if they could move.

"Molly, oh God, Molly…"

The cold bit into Sherlock as much as the others, but if he didn't keep them going they'd freeze to death during the night. He tried his best not to be irritated, and turned back his friends.

"Mind," he said, startling John who was holding Molly to his chest. Without waiting for John to do as he was told Sherlock reached down and took Molly into his own arms, and lifted her up as he stood. She didn't protest the change and wrapped her arms around his neck where she continued to sob softly. John staggered to his feet ready, to catch her should Sherlock's strength fail but it was unnecessary, and the man gestured for him to follow towards the house.

John managed to pull along faster now that he was only holding up his own weight. He gave silent thanks to Sherlock who didn't seem affected by anything much, and hurried forward when they made it to the house.

"Hello! It looks empty."

"Open the door, we can't stay out here." Sherlock said, caring nothing whether there were people inside or not.

John was too cold to argue and opened the door, then stepped aside for Sherlock to go first. He rushed in after him and shut the door, turning to stare into the living room of a rather small house. It was almost pitch black, but their eyes were already adjusted. Sherlock led the way in swiftly but cautiously, and stepped around and into what looked to be a bedroom. The window was boarded up with planks haphazardly much like the rest of the house, but it would do. The house looked empty, not a peek or a sound.

Gently, he laid her down on the bed, pulling away from her clingy hands. She protested this time, but he shushed her with promises and covered her with the blanket and petted her hair until she lay still long enough for him to pull away. She was not a complete lump of nothing but nerves and repeated a chorus of 'thank you' and 'please don't leave me here' whispers. John came in after searching the house with news that it was empty, and took Sherlock's place at her side until he managed to lull her to sleep.

The house wasn't particularly empty but it showed signs of being abandoned. There were still clothes in the cupboards and plates in the kitchen. After exploring Sherlock drifted into the living room, and peeked out the gaps of the planks for any signs of the rebels, but there was none. He heard when John joined him again, and turned, rubbing the cold from his arms.

"Are you alright?" he asked, looking John over briefly in the dark.

The man nodded, but it died away and he fell into a chair, rubbing his palms over his face with a heavy shaky sigh. "If I had gotten a warning of what they'd do to Molly I would have tried to save her too..."

Sherlock regarded him, and slowly approached. "You did now. Thank you. You risked your life for me. For us..."

"What can I say, I'm a softie." John smiled, weakly, and looked up at the man that made such a difference in his heart in such a short amount of time, and in the oddest ways.

But Sherlock didn't return it. "...You said Moriarty wanted me. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, we didn't do all this for nothing. That's what Anderson said. He was so...so eager to get you. But why you? Why Moriarty? He doesn't care about the prisoners."

"What else did he say?" Sherlock sat on the arm rest of the chair closest to John and leaned over. John pulled a face at him, having neither the desire nor strength to go through this now.

"Why?"

"Don't question me just answer."

"Nothing! Other than threaten me if we had sex? And-and he asked if you offered me money to keep quiet about you being here. He made no sense, I couldn't understand what he was saying. And something about that Adler woman.

Sherlock's eye brows smacked against his hair line. "Adler?" He knew that name. He knew that name. Oh God did he know that name.

"Yeah, I've seen her a few times, she's Moriarty's right hand man. She's a right...bitch."

" _Irene Adler_?" he stressed, making John lean away.

"Huh? I don't know, she's-why?"

This was not good. Irene Adler was Mycroft's intended, a strong beautiful woman supposedly fit to be a queen. Not that it would particularly break Mycroft's heart, Sherlock knew he had no love for her, but it would certainly question their own intelligence for not sniffing a rat. She just seemed like a narcissistic wrench, not a rebel.

"John, tell me what you know about her. Is she an alpha?"

"Yes. They call her _The Woman_. Why?"

Everything clicked in that next second. The woman that strolled so oddly through the workroom had been Irene Adler. She had been looking straight at him, and in his darn curiosity he gave her a portrait view of his face. She probably ran straight to Moriarty, who sent Anderson to get him, who knocked in John and couldn't keep his mouth shut. Irene was a spy, a rebel, she was working for Moriarty. So many times she'd be in the palace, waltzing around on Mycroft's arm and giving petty comments that would make Mycroft laugh at her womanly demands.

They'd been played the whole time.

"...They know..."

"Know what?" it was John's turn to lean closer.

"Who I am..."

"Anderson said something about me knowing who you are when I mentioned your name and he-"

"They know. It's just as well we left, if he gets me..."

John sat back and raised his palms, much too tired to be straining his thoughts. "Okay, now you're not making sense either."

Sherlock looked up sharply, making John do a double take. "John, I am going to tell you something, but you must not panic."

"Now by saying that, you're going to make me panic-"

"I am sorry for getting you involved, but I am also glad for it. I will reward you handsomely for it, even though you didn't know who I am."

"Okay now you're scaring me, what is this-? _Who are you_?"

The tension had boiled to a point where Sherlock was both excited and nervous about revealing his identity. John looked both extremely interested and at the same time in no mood for games. But John had to know now. If it hadn't been for John, he dreaded to think where he would be right now.

"...I am Sherlock Holmes of England, King Mycroft's younger brother."

Sherlock then waited for a response, which took a while to come. John stared blankly at first, then laughed, then stared, then smiled tightly and shook his head. "...No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, John."

" _No_."

"John-"

"You...you're the _prince_ of _England_?"

"Yes." Sherlock tried not to smirk, but the look on John's face was rather cute.

" _Holmes_?"

"John you're a doctor, one would expect you to be sharper."

Of all the things he wanted to mention, their sexual rendezvous played in his mind and a guilty expression gave him away. "But...we..."

"I am still human." Sherlock answered, leaving John unsatisfied.

The doctor tried to speak, stopping and starting constantly. "I-I know but-... I didn't know the royal family had an omega prince."

"I chose to keep it a secret. For reasons like Moriarty. And my pride." He added, giving John a cheeky smirk. He was glad it was too dark to see the heat rise to his cheeks.

In awe, John sat back and stared at Sherlock with new eyes. It almost made sense now that he thought of it, but at the same time it sounded like total poppycock. "Oh my God. That's why he sent-? He found out that you were the prince?"

"What better humiliation to the throne than to exploit my weakness." Sherlock muttered distastefully, and silently cursed his omega heritage for the millionth time.

"The King would have him killed just for thinking of something like that." John said, a weak attempt at comforting Sherlock.

"If he doesn't kill Mycroft first..."

A moment of damp silence passed between them until John couldn't hold his tongue anymore. "...So... you don't mind bedding commoners."

Sherlock bristled. "I don't _bed_ anyone. I took suppressants whilst in the palace."

"Oh. Was this your first time actually experiencing rut?" John asked, incredulously, but it made sense.

"First time since puberty. Well, not truly, I'm lying. I had one rut before this, during my first months in Nottingham."

"You took it extremely well, regardless." John was impressed. The prince (good Lord he was the _prince_ ) had been a horrible mess, but held it off better than anyone he'd seen before.

Sherlock shrugged, but savoured the smug feeling. "It's all about control. And a little help..."

Again John stared, until he blurted out again. "I can't believe I've been snogging a prince." He also almost couldn't believe such a man was a virgin, but many omegas today were virgins until the right partner came along, it was now a punishable crime to force anyone into bed. But it made sense in Sherlock's case, his reactions and actions were justified and John felt more thankful than ever for his patience.

"You won't be in trouble. I am allowed to snog who I want."

"And you chose me?"

"...I did."

Even in the dark Sherlock's eyes were piercing, both in shape and that colour that looked silver in the dim light. It made John's heart clench and he sighed shakily, glancing over the man, the prince. "Thank you...I don't know what to say." It was a general 'thank you', not just for the kissing, but he had a feeling Sherlock would understand.

"Oh come on, I am the same person from before."

"Doyle?" John said as the name jumped into his head.

"Hm? Oh, just a name I thought up before leaving."

"You ran away from being prince?"

"I guess." Sherlock answered, shortly. Yes it was childish and he'd get enough mouth for it from Mycroft, so he didn't want to hear it in any form, not from John. So he changed the subjected. "...I thought my number was up when they attacked the village."

"Wait, so what were you doing the whole time in Nottingham? Hiding?"

"I worked for a woman, Mrs. Hudson. She provided lodging and food and I assisted her day to day."

"A prince? You worked?" John laughed, an actual easy going laugh. His face was still drawn, so Sherlock feigned a glare, one easy to call its bluff.

"I'm sorry is that sarcasm?"

"No, I just...I'm still in shock."

"I'll give you some time then..."

John took it, for nothing though, and stared with a hurricane of shocking revelations in his head. He'd been kissing King Mycroft's younger brother. He'd been intimate with King Mycroft's younger brother. He assisted King Mycroft's younger brother through his rut, and then risked death against England's worst enemy for him… it was still hard to believe.

Sherlock never looked away from him though, and grew worried by all the expressions filtering though John's face. "...Do I repulse you now?" he couldn't help asking, and didn't even bother to hide his concern when John looked up at him with a frown.

"What?"

"Some hate royals, are you one of them?"

It was a stupid question, John thought. "Well, I am not going to strangle you in your sleep or call the rebels if that is what you are worrying about."

"I know you won't. But will you still help me?"

John laughed and rolled his eyes and slapped his palms on his thighs. For a smart person Sherlock sure missed the obvious. "Help you? Get out of here and to friendly grounds so we an alert the king? Yes. You promised we'd go back, right? We'll take the army, your brother can do that, yeah?"

"Obviously, I am working out strategic plans right now." Sherlock assured, but smirked a second later with a crafty jerk of his brow. "But I was talking about my rut."

"Oh. _Oh_. OH. You still-? With me?" Like a humming bird John's heart took off. Heat rushed to his face and ears and he found it harder to believe now that this man was pursuing him, and not the other way around. This was a prince for goodness sake, and he was a nobody.

"My rut is ending, one last time should give it the boot. I don't want to attract anyone. I'm choosing you John because I know you, and you won't exploit this... just one last time, before we head out. If you recall from a day or two ago, I didn't get to finish what I started."

John shifted in reluctant anticipation. Sherlock caught him in one of the most passionate gazes he'd ever been stuck in, his whole life counting, and thought back to that afternoon Sherlock pounced on him in the office before they were interrupted. And as much as it sounded good, and even dare he think, kinkier, he was still stuck on the 'he's a prince' part.

"Hold on, what do I call you? Prince Holmes?"

"Sherlock, as always. Are you being funny?" Sherlock asked, genuinely ticked off. The adrenaline hadn't settled in his system and he blamed that on the rut, and the more the knowledge sunk in that John attacked a guard and risked his own life to get him out, the more Sherlock wanted to climb on top of him and-…kiss him.

"And you still have time to think about rutting?" John shot back.

"Yes. And I want it all this time."

"I-hm? Huh?"

"I want it all. John. I want you."

John was not expecting that. "...You're serious?"

"I won't repeat that a third time."

John stared, blankly, and tapped the chair absentmindedly. "Right here, now?"

"Well yes, I put Molly on the bed."

"No, I mean...for first time sex, you'd want something more decent...more romantic?" How did he treat a male omega in this situation? A woman would want candle light and roses and a plush bed, but what on earth did you do for the bigheaded Sherlock Holmes of England?

"It honestly isn't brothering me, unless you can't perform here?"

"No, I-I can. I'm just thinking about you?"

"For goodness sake John, stop looking at me like I am some snotty prince."

"I can't just forget it either."

At the last straw, ironically, Sherlock shot up and leaned over John in his chair. He fisted his hand in the man's shirt and looked down straight into his eyes. "Right now Doctor Watson I am a very needy omega who is offering a romp on this very old couch. Take it before I do it myself and make you watch. And I will not let you in half way."

Sherlock had his doubts about John wanting him, but he was delighted when John rose up like the sea itself and grabbed his face for a deep kiss. This time he welcomed it, and felt his heart flutter at the feeling of John's loving lips enveloping his own. He grabbed onto John's forearms as the man pulled him a head lower as they indulged in the kiss, and he moaned openly, the actions sending sparks straight to his groin.

John took advantage of the leeway and turned their faces, taking the sweetness that was Sherlock. It took effort to pull away, and he cocked a questioning brow at Sherlock.

"Don't say a word," Sherlock warned lightly, to which John laughed and pulled him back for another kiss.

Not long after Sherlock lead John back towards the two-seater couch. He had more discipline in general than most people and broke the kiss, leaving John leaning after him. He shoved the man towards the seat and smiled down at him, seeing such intriguing want written as plain as day over John's face. It was a most fascinating sight, and he was causing it, so unlike the rolls of eyes and sneers he usually received.

Both aroused and amused Sherlock leaned his hips to the left and grabbed the hem of the flimsy brown uniform. Then as if it were nothing, he tore it open right up to the collar, laughing at the gape from John. The material easily broken apart and he let it fall from his shoulders to pool at his bare feet. He was warming significantly faster now that he was out of the cold, and the blood starting to pound faster began to warm his skin.

John was in awe. The last time anyone had been so enthusiastic to bed him had been years ago, everything since then was quick fixes here and there with the help of a drink. This was too good to be true. The prince of England was presenting to _him_. John couldn't remember what breathing was. He wanted to reach out and trace his fingers over the smooth hairless chest and those shapely arms. The light peeking through the planks provided just enough light to see what was needed to be seen, and from this angle, Sherlock looked like he was carved from stone. His hair hung over his face in the most appealing way, his slender neck introducing his torso beautifully down to the curve that lead into his pants.

John made a needy noise.

Smug, Sherlock lifting the material on his thighs slightly before swinging a leg, then the other, and sat himself down on John's lap as he would when seating himself in Mycroft's office, like a snobby prince. He then kneeled up on his knees and placed his hands on John's neck, feeling him swallow. Slowly, he leaned forward and directed John's face to his stomach, and immediately the man responded by pressing a kiss to it. He kneaded with his fingers encouraging and John increased his attentions with nibbling and evolving into suckling.

The taste of the fading rut sat tantalisingly dusted over Sherlock's skin. John lapped it up, his hands finding their way to Sherlock's thighs to keep the man in place. The hair on the back of his neck stood each time Sherlock dug his nails into his neck and he nipped harder, sucked harder, rewarded by firmer handling by the omega. His cock responded and bulged in his pants, but he didn't want to force Sherlock in his lap, he wanted to humour whatever the man wanted, as cliché as it was, and it had nothing to do with Sherlock being a prince. He wanted Sherlock to enjoy this. To enjoy his first time, despite the nonchalant attitude he was throwing around.

As their arousal grew so did their scents and Sherlock bit back a moan at the very sexual smells and the twist it put in his gut. His stomach was so tight from John's administrations it hurt and his cock was rising and fighting against the material. He wanted friction, he wanted relief, and daring the idea, he straightened as much as he could and pushed John's head down. There was a moment of resistance where John was confused, so Sherlock answered by rolling his hips up once.

Jutting from Sherlock's hips was a most gorgeous bulge and John gladly pressed his face to it. He slid up his hands to cup the junctions between Sherlock's upper back thighs and buttocks, making him moan, and pressed against the heat emanating. John flared his nostrils and inhaled all that was Sherlock. The powerful scent from his area sent his eyes rolling back and he moaned a muffled moan into it, squeezing Sherlock's flesh in a manner that was most possessive. It thrilled Sherlock and he balanced himself using John's shoulders, and began to roll his hips.

John's cock protested in his pants as he nuzzled against Sherlock and inhaled his scent. It was so omega, so young, so new, so welcoming. He wanted to mark it and covet it, every bit of all that Sherlock was. He wanted it. And Sherlock's enthusiastic consent made it so much more thrilling.

Sherlock grunted as John buried his face in his crotch. The friction was beautiful and sent electric through his limbs. His bottom lip throbbed from his gnawing and he was sure he was littering John's neck and now shoulders with finger nail dents. If it bothered the man he never said, so Sherlock didn't stop. His cock was straining painfully now and he wanted to plop back down and grind the hell out of John-but he wanted more.

"Tear off my pants," he panted, but John didn't catch it over their breathing and groaning. The blond looked up, perfectly content with getting lost against the cock pressing out so perfectly from Sherlock's hips. "Wha?"

"Tear. Off. My. Pants." Sherlock repeated, paced and vividly. John hesitated for a moment, but Sherlock's face held more than enough answers.

 _Gladly_ , John thought, and reached up to grab the back of Sherlock's waist hem. He gripped it tight, then tore it apart, groaning lowly to himself. Sherlock nodded and scraped his nails down John's neck with a lip-bitten moan, and that was all the incentive John needed to rip off the remaining fabric. It fell away like nothing around them and he didn't bother to ask as he tore off the grey underwear standing between them. While there were clothes in the cupboards Sherlock didn't fancy wearing some commoner's underwear, but he didn't care at the moment. John grunted in effort, the underwear was of much stronger quality but he got it off and tossed it aside, and sat back to stare at the length standing out to him.

Sherlock was panting heavily now and bucking lightly, his member bouncing gently. "John," he breathed, for no definite reason.

"You're sculpted from fucking granite." John choked, in a mixture of jealousy and desire. Torn between wanting to be gentle and down right savage John slapped his hands around Sherlock and smacked his cheeks, digging his fingers into them and held on for dear life. Sherlock made a soft sound and pressed back into his rough hands, his chest rising and falling attractively.

"Hmm," Sherlock tasted blood, but he stopped biting for more than a few second before sucking in his lip again, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Are you sure you want me?" John asked. It seemed less cheesy than the other questions that threatened to spill over. Sherlock was a grown man, and in this instant he looked like he wanted to be treated like one.

Sherlock took a moment to think. Even now, John was being mindful. As sweet as it was it was also a tad irritating, Sherlock wanted him to want him just as bad. Perhaps he did, but he was reining it in because of the prince and virgin taboos. It miffed him.

"John…if you don't…I…I will bite you." He ended, with as much seriousness as he could muster. It was a joke, of course, he didn't want to seem nervous, because he wasn't, but if John stalled anymore he might get cold feet, his mind did progress fast after all.

"Save that for the finale," John joked back, sending a thrill through Sherlock for the offer. Filthy images of biting John's shoulder as they reached a true climax together flooded through Sherlock's mind and blinded him for a few ecstasy filled moments. He hummed in the back of his mind and took a moment to be grateful he was not blinded by rut and able to remember all this.

"John…" he downright complained, and bucked his hips in need.

"Do you trust me?" John asked, much like the very first time they got heavy in the storeroom. Sherlock stilled, and recalled the question and its origins. He looked down to see John smiling handsomely up at him. Did he? Did he trust John? After all they'd just been through, after what John did for him, after all John had done for him?

"…What appendage would like to lose first?" he ground out with fake malevolence, pretty much answering John. YES DAMMIT was written all over his face, you'd have to be blind not to see it, and though slow on the uptake, John recognised it. It was all he needed to know.

Now thinking about all the things he'd been craving to do John had to reel himself back in for Sherlock's sake. He knew if he suggested sex on the roof Sherlock would humour him and see it as a challenge, so that novelty wasn't what would make this special. He didn't want to be the beginning of the prince of England becoming a sex crazed harlot.

But he couldn't sit like this any longer. So John withdrew his hands and repositioned them. He grasped Sherlock's throbbing meat in one and slipped the other between his legs and brushing his knuckles back and forth from the scrotum to the crease of his arse. The body jerked slightly and he pulled so the skin of his penis towards the tip, and looked up just in time to see a lick of those pretty bow lips.

John pulled back his extended hand and stuck two fingers straight into his mouth. He didn't make a job of it and as soon as they were wet he stuck them back where they were and without waiting for sign he turned his fingers up and pressed them where no one but its owner had pressed before.

Instinctually Sherlock jumped and tightened his hold on John. He fought to keep his face neutral as the digits pressed intrusively. Heat flushed his cheeks and his gut boiled in response, bubbling when John slid his other hand back up to Sherlock's body and started to massage it comfortingly into his waist. Unable to look away, he held John in an unbreakable gaze as finally a finger pressed into him.

John licked his bottom lip, his heart taking off at the speed of light as warmth enveloped his finger. He stared back at Sherlock with as much heat as he was getting, and pushed his finger further into the slick heat. Very slick heat. Of all the times John wondered what it would be like with an aroused omega male, the experience was already killing any bland thoughts he'd had.

Sherlock was indeed excited, lubricating himself naturally and successfully, it made John's cock throb. He made a strangled groan and curled his finger, fascinated by the welcome Sherlock's body was giving him. He noticed Sherlock's chest rising and falling a little faster and made another noise, wincing as his cock twitched. "Sherlock, fuck," his articulation flew out the window.

"Another," Sherlock ordered, and dipped his hips. John made a disbelieving but satisfied noise and pulled out the finger, quickly replacing it with both. There was little resistance until the tight ring neared his knuckles, but John didn't have the biggest hands for an alpha. Nevertheless Sherlock didn't seem to notice and shimmied his knees apart further for better reception.

It was so unlike when he'd done it to himself. Granted he hadn't been particularly aroused and he might have been hoping it wouldn't be pleasant. But here with John overwhelmed by a few powerful emotions and desires it was near heaven. He hadn't realised (or wanted to know) the extent to which his body could lubricate for sex, it was both horrifying and amazing. John's fingers sliding in so smoothly and it was not unpleasant at all, if only slightly odd as it wasn't something he usually did.

Spurred on by the response John dedicated the next few moments to fingering the entrance sensually, massaging the walls and stretching the muscle in preparation. Sherlock held his fingers snugly, it was a most missed sensation and John found himself letting go a little more. He took hold of Sherlock's length and pumped it in time to his fingers. The omega gasped and bucked his hips, and John went faster, leaning over and planting wet kisses down Sherlock's flat stomach.

Sherlock grunted and leaned over, holding the back of the couch tightly. His hips were rolling in a way he never thought they could and he realised just how powerful sexual desire was. He'd always wrote it off, scoffed, thought himself above it. But here with John doing such heavenly things to him he wondered what else he still needed to learn.

Wet, John was becoming quickly wet. His left hand was starting to drip from pre cum leaking from the tip, his right hand was slowly becoming slick with lubricating juices and he was starting to sweat from heat their bodies were producing. In addition he was sure his own underwear was starting to get wet and the combination struck a cord in his primal instincts. There was a very wet and wanton omega grinding above him and he wasn't servicing it, what the hell conscious, his subconscious snubbed.

Unable to resist John stopped his attentions, to Sherlock's displeasure, and frantically began trying to get open his pants. "Get off a moment." He said, regretting every word, and regretting that he didn't strip when Sherlock did.

"No." Sherlock breathed, and ground his cock against John's shoulder. His back rolled beautifully and he felt a wetness coating his cheeks around his entrance, and it turned him on even more.

John groaned at his weak will, but pushed away those lithe hips, "I need to get out my clothes," he forced out between his teeth. His cock was aching now from being restrained, any longer and it would burst.

"Keep them on," Sherlock offered, "people do it clothed."

"Oh God," John whimpered and renewed his struggles to free his member. Sherlock leaned back slightly in remorse, but also to watch as John finally ripped open the button and pulled it out, red and straining. John groaned in relief and relaxed back, holding it in one hand as the other rose to brush his forehead.

Then Sherlock shifted above him and muttered someone that sounded like 'Don't move', and before he could react he was wiggling down on his cock. John jumped and lifted his knees automatically to thwart the attempt. "Hey! Hey! Sherlock-?!"

"What?" Sherlock asked irritably as he kneeled back up, arms over either side of John's head, "I know what happens next."

"Then don't rush it," John laughed, feeling as though Sherlock was trying a little too hard. The look on Sherlock's face wasn't right for the moment and John soothed him with a squeeze to his waist, reining in the laughter in an apologetic manner. "Just pace yourself. I know I'm not that big but you should still be careful."

Sherlock regarded him for a moment, John couldn't tell what he was thinking, until he spoke softly. "You're big enough."

John fought not to laugh and coo. He smiled handsomely and took the compliment.

Though John had a point Sherlock didn't want to acknowledge it. He _wanted_ it to hurt, to burn, to stretch, he wanted to really experience and remember it. He sniffed and got back into position, giving John a 'yes-I'm-ready-already' look and lifting slightly when the man gave in and positioned his cock. He guided Sherlock, who seemed dead set on constantly topping from the bottom, against him so his cock rested against his clothed chest and his arse was in the right position. Only when the tip caught behind Sherlock's balls and between his cheeks did John place both his hands around Sherlock's beautiful waist and signalled it was his turn.

Sherlock took it. He wiggled again until he felt the tip press his rim. It sent a jolt up his stomach into his rib cage, boomeranging to his cock. It gave him courage and he lowered his weight, and his lips parted in silence as the angry red head popped straight in a couple inches. It was almost too easy and John had to help him stop when a stray wince escaped his throat. He felt the pain from the strain on his muscles, but the slick wet inside him made it criminally easy.

Below him John struggled to breathe and be still, especially with Sherlock wanting the opposite. He wanted to buck up into that tight channel and keep thrusting until he shot his seed, to bite into that pale flesh and mark it, even if only for this one night…

Hips rose and fell, slowly, up and down, a little slower, then a little faster, then a roll, then a little faster downwards, repeated a few times each time Sherlock knew what he was doing. The technicalities were simple, doing it was harder, but he was a fast learner. John's advise was kindly rejected and Sherlock braced himself on the seats backrest as he moved, throwing his head back, eyes closed as he slid on the erect penis. Strong hands found their way around his cheeks and held them open and against the body he was riding, his cock sandwiched between them and starting to burn from the material on John.

A torrent of cussing overflowed like a tsunami in John's mind but he couldn't verbalise any of them and stuck to moaning loudly, whether Molly could hear or not. His hips bucked as Sherlock's dropped and the sensation of having his cock encased in such wet heat threatened to have him undone within seconds. Sherlock was so wet, suctioning at his stiff flesh with each rise of his hips. John wished he could see it for himself, watch as his cock disappear into the tiny hole capable of stretching for him. He could, if Sherlock went on his knees…John swore under his breath and brought Sherlock down a little faster in response to his thoughts. The male moved himself faster at his whim, grinding against him desperately.

John saw Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbing attractively and found there was nothing he could change here. Sherlock was more than perfect, he was a royal after all. Such a valuable person put so much trust in him, it made John's heart flutter. He raised his hands and wrapped them around Sherlock's waste in a restricting way and pulled his body flush against his. He felt the question in Sherlock's movement and slid his lower body out slightly so he was more reclined, and in return so was Sherlock. He readjusted his grip, holding Sherlock against him, and used all the power his legs and stomach had to piston into his willing body.

Now leaning over John's left shoulder Sherlock cried out and clenched his eyes, getting lost in the mind-blowing hits to his omega side. Each entry was like electric, hitting deep inside him with smooth strokes that were surely the stuff of legend. Sherlock couldn't bounce like he had been but every time he tried to John just squeezed him down and thrust harder. Eventually Sherlock gave up and settled on pressing his hips forward for more pressure on his leaking cock. It felt so good, so so _so_ extraordinarily good and Sherlock found some peace with his omega status, at least when John was tending to it…

Eyes closed, chin rest up on Sherlock's shoulder, John tried to be both as gentle and as passionate as he was allowed to be. Sherlock's thighs were gripping him so tightly making it difficult to thrust high between them, but a grip to his neck immediately made them soften. John made quickly work of it and got a good grip on Sherlock's neck with one hand and scratched as roughly as he dared. Sherlock melted and rested against him more with a loud keen, much like the embarrassing one before. John took advantage and held him down securely, working his hips faster _faster_ _**faster**_. Sherlock's arse muscles clenched down on him greedily and John wanted nothing more than to remain buried there for eternity, holding the writhing body against his own.

The end was close and Sherlock gave himself over, pressing his sweaty face into John's neck, smelling his beautiful alpha scent as he drove into his body with a love Sherlock was never able to link to sex. It worried him but at the same time made his stomach flutter, and he closed his eyes, latching onto a chunk of flesh as John's balls began to frantically slap his cheeks and his anus began to ache from the brutal invasion. He drank it all up, moaning louder and louder until he bit down, screaming a muffled scream as his orgasm took him under.

Violently his hips bucked despite John's grip and he ground against John, spilling his own seed between them and pulling John over with him. The alpha dug himself into Sherlock's flesh wherever he had his grip and released, holding Sherlock's his down as best he could as he tainted his virgin tunnel. The blood pounding in his ears made it harder to keep a grip on reality as their vision spotted and the world disappeared around them. All that was real in the world was each other…

XxXXxXxXXxXxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13 days since being captured. So it was almost a week. 
> 
> First Johnlock smut. I TRIED OKAY. Also, sorry Molly. I'll make it up to you.


	9. So close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tendency to create words, sorry.

_**Chapter 9:So close** _

Molly awoke in a daze. She sat up with a frightened cry at the unfamiliar surroundings, but her mind quickly caught up and she recalled all that had happened. There was light shining through gaps in the walls, heating her skin where it reached. Sunlight, when last had she seen sunlight? Cautiously she slid over and dipped her feet to the floor. Instinctively she tried to make as little sound as possible, and approached the door with baby steps. She prayed for there to be no rebels, or that this was a horrid dream, and reached out to open the door.

The hallway was dark and empty. Molly screwed up her courage and stepped out, the floor dusty under her bare feet. Slowly she side stepped her way around the nearest corner and saw a bush of black hair just visible beyond the back rest of the couch facing away from her.

Sherlock, she thought, in relief, and approached.

Immediately she squeaked and swirled away, slapping her hands to her mouth as her face turned red. She made a noise that sounded like strangled laughter. Then, on a second and darker turn of her thoughts, she turned back and looked over the very naked Sherlock for signs of abuse.

There weren't any to be found. Guilt swept over her and she looked up at the sleeping face of John and smiled an apology. Sherlock was sleeping onto of John, cuddled into his arm and the couch, while John was more to the edge. He was completely naked and had a leg and its corresponding arm thrown over John, who didn't seem uncomfortable in the slightest. Sherlock's position kept his dangly bits from view, Molly was glad.

But it still felt a little too exposed for her, and she ran back to the room she had slept in, and returned with the blanket. Carefully she draped it over them and giggled when Sherlock muttered something in his sleep and turned his face into the crook of John's arm. The couch itself was barely able to hold them both but the two other chairs were single seaters. Molly would have offered them the bed, they did rescue her, but especially seeing as what they'd been up to.

Her gaze flickered back to John's face. She hadn't known he was attracted to males, he had said it himself that he liked women, especially tall women, so what brought this on? She was ashamed for the moment of doubt, John would never harm them in such a way, and she was positive this Sherlock could lift the world if he wanted to. Now that she thought about it they'd always had that unspoken silence, maybe they had attraction, and after the wild night they had it spilled over. She remembered Sherlock had been in rut, as she was now, that was also probably a contributing factor.

She left them to sleep and returned to her room. The small livingroom stunk of stale sex and pheromones compared to the rest of the house, but her room didn't fair any better. Her own rut was at its peak, but she had never felt safer in the hands on two men.

Later that morning John awoke with a start, accidently startling Sherlock as well and they tumbled to the floor in a pile of limbs and blanket. Sherlock poked up with a loud groan, his hair standing and his eyes weary, and complained incoherently about John being a worm. The alpha hurried to help Sherlock to his feet, or at least back onto the couch, but remained upright himself and stretched deliciously. His lower back and abdomen muscles ached fiercely from the out of the blue sex, but he wouldn't change it for the world.

On the seat Sherlock absent-mindedly grasped the blankets close, still very much naked, and rubbed his eyes, leaning to the right slightly to relieve some pressure off his backside. John would have missed it had he not been expecting it. The light shining through the gaps of the planks caught his attention and he hurried over, fixing his creased clothing. He shut one eye and peeked through a gap on his level, and saw the beautiful scenery shining in the sunshine.

"It's morning," he said, "Sherlock they didn't find us."

"Oh," Sherlock replied blandly, staring at the single couch to his right as he accessed his body and all the odd and aching sensations it had. He got his wish alright, the sure felt it, but it wasn't painful.

Feeling optimistic, John approached his partner in crime. They had survived through the night, the rebels hadn't found them, it was sunny outside and he had the most intriguing omega sitting dazed from their romping last night. He actually felt fucking good!

"You alright?" John asked as he sat down, "Is it what you expected?" he amended.

"Sort of," Sherlock replied soft, wincing slightly with facial expressions at the aching heartbeat now present by his entrance. "It's..."

"I'd offer to make you some tea and breakfast but er...we're gonna have to get you home for that."

Sherlock smiled and looked up at John, noting a change on his face. "You look happy."

"Shouldn't I be?" John returned the smile.

"Just don't get sappy."

"Let's focus on getting out of here," John joked, but did as requested. It would have been nice to wrap Sherlock up further and hold him against him chest and just bask, but this was the prince of England, not a childhood sweetheart.

Just then movement from behind Sherlock caught John's eye and he looked up to see Molly. He shot up and looked down at himself, but thank God he was fully clothed.

"Good morning," she giggled, and stepped in.

"G-good morning Molly. How are you feeling?" John hurried over to her and gave her a once over, his doctor side peeking out.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." she said, but there was nothing to be done about everything she'd been through.

"Did you sleep okay? I should have checked up on you."

Molly saw the honest guilt in his eyes. She rolled her own and waved a hand, "I was fine. You were a bit occupied anyway."

Behind them Sherlock turned his head toward them but said nothing. John spluttered slightly and turned to look between his two omega friends. "What-you-were we-?"

"I woke up earlier and I saw you guys lying on the couch," she blushed, trying not to trip over her words, "So I brought a blanket, thought you might be cold."

"Oh, oh Molly, I'm so sorry," John hung his head in shame. He should have retrieved Sherlock clothes before they fell asleep, but at the time he couldn't bear to move. The last thing Molly needed was to see naked men (or even one) in the obvious aftermath of sex. Sherlock didn't look too bothered behind them.

"No, no, it's okay. I understand," Molly said quickly, hesitating between patting John comfortingly and tucking her hair behind her ear in slightly awkwardness.

"No, that was wrong of me. I shouldn't have been so careless."

Rolling his eyes Sherlock turned away from them. He was omega like Molly, his body worked generally the same way hers did so what were they fussing for. Had the tables been turned he wouldn't have freaked out seeing her naked on John, he might have been more affecting by seeing John naked because he was the sexual opposite when it came down to procreation.

No wait...no Molly on John, no no no.

"It's okay." she stressed, and peeked at the mop of black curls pointedly looking away, "Thank you Sherlock, for helping me out there." she was talking about everything. Forcing down her door, helping her down the shoot, encouraging her with words to continue on, the carrying her when she could make it no more. "Thank you."

Sherlock his head turned slightly, "You're welcome."

"I'm just sorry it didn't happen sooner Molly, I'm so sorry." John pulled her in for a hug, unaffected for the first time by her rut scent. He hugged her closely and petted her hair, murmuring a few more apologies and promises.

John led her to one of the seats and set her down before slipping back next to Sherlock, and made a pointed effort that amused Sherlock not to make physical contact.

"Molly," John started, sending Sherlock a look, "There's something we have to tell you."

"...Okay?" she looked between them, nervously, but hopefully.

John struggled to form his words. "See er...Sherlock is...Why we escaped if because...well, he is-the er-"

"I'm the prince of England," Sherlock cut in, drawling with a stink eye at John who sighed.

"Yes, that."

Molly's jaw slackened and she stared at Sherlock. "Prince? Of-? To K-King Mycroft?"

"Older brother," Sherlock confirmed as if talking about the weather, and kept the blankets wrapped to his chin. He was starting to feel slightly chilly now that he worked out all his energy and heat last night.

"Sherlock Holmes," Molly whispered, then let out a loud laugh that shocked both men, " _Sherlock Holmes_? I can't believe-you-I thought-I mean it rang a bell but I- you actually used-?"

"Truth be told I was prepared to kill John if the name _Sherlock Doyle_ was too obvious and he figured it out, but it passed the whole time."

Sherlock sounded satisfied, John looked gobsmacked.

Molly was trying to reign in her amazed laughter. She had a hand over her mouth to stifle it, but also in pure surprise, and stared at Sherlock with watery eyes.

"Please don't bow," Sherlock said, looking away from her gaze, "save that for when you meet Mycroft."

"Meet him?" John asked, but immediately shut his mouth, figuring it was a figure of speech.

"Well, who do you think we're going to alert? We need to get to the palace as soon as possible. By now they've done roll calls and checks and we're missing, they'll know where we've headed."

"Meet the king?" John said, a disbelieving smile dancing across his face. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Yes John, keep up."

"King of England?" Molly said, looking between them in awe. Her gaze settled on Sherlock's and it creased. "But, how did they get you?"

"Like everyone else. I was pretending to be a commoner and I got caught. Now could we move on and start the walk?"

Sherlock had a point, they were lucky enough to be sitting here without rebels falling through the windows. After agreeing they were all ready Sherlock rose with his blanket and padded to the bedroom where the clothes were. After he was dressed, with some secret winces when he bent to kick on trouser, he came out with a old but large coat for Molly who was still only dressed in a rather suggestive night gown.

John buttoned up her coat and made sure she was covered comfortably. Unable to help himself, he pulled at Sherlock's clothes too. As expected the younger male gave him a confused look and nudged him away, but pointedly grabbed his hand when they started walking out the door. Molly giggled behind them, but let John take her hand in return, and Sherlock lead the way of their little line. He knew where they were and exactly how to get to England's borders without being caught.

Nottingham was a few miles to the left and Sherlock silently mourned Mrs. Hudson, but if she had not revealed herself she could very well have survived and made it out. He promised to himself to find out once he could.

The entire day they walked, then after mid day caught a ride on a small wagon from a kind old man. The ride was long, a few good hours, but it took them to a small town just outside the border, and Sherlock felt his shoulders relax. The rebels wouldn't stage an attack on a town this big, but they had to be careful of spies.

With a twinkle in his eye the old man placed a few coins into Molly's hand, insisting she take it and buy herself a nice dress and some shoes. John was sceptical but Sherlock saw no threat and thanked the man heartily before they parted into the town.

It was dark and sure to rain soon, they needed shelter. At first Sherlock hesitated, for a second, but then convinced Molly to use the money to pay for a room for them for the night and possibly some food. John pulled a fuss, pointing dramatically at her cold aching feet but eventually Sherlock won. Molly sided with him, it was only reasonable and she wasn't _naked_. Sherlock promised to repay her and properly clothe her when they reached the palace, they just needed to get there, by any means necessary.

Molly and Sherlock were both twice as famished than John from their heat and rut and before finding the cheapest lodgings they bought a loaf of bread. It wasn't hot or soft from sitting all day but it filled their empty bellies and gave them some strength.

The room they received was small and held only one double bed, but there was no picking and choosing. Sherlock would have flashed his royal self and demanded better conditions but there were too many citizens that didn't particularly liked the royal family, even if they weren't rebels. Now that it was nightfall the men were drinking and cavorting and both Sherlock and Molly were giving off 'come hither' scents. John had to hug them both every now and then to keep his scent on them both to hide theirs. Trained in combat or not, Sherlock was sore, he was tired, and he was weak. He had to be smart to get them all the way, his pride be damned.

The trio sat together on the bed, finishing the bread enthusiastically. Molly was scarfing it down the fastest, and John sneaked an extra piece on her lap when she wasn't looking. Sherlock caught it, and shook his head once when John offered him the same.

Wiping her mouth, Molly cleared her throat and looked up at them. "Thank you."

"My pleasure Molly." John smiled, "But it was your-"

"No, _thank you_ , thank you both." she said, and they understood. John reached over and rubbed her arm.

"It's okay. We'll be okay. We just need to get to the king."

Now that there was time to relax and think, Sherlock thought about his brother, and how many times that snake of a woman had visited him and what information she'd gotten out of him. Maybe Mycroft even knew about her being a spy but judging by their last talk it would seem he didn't.

"I hope Mycroft is okay."

"Let's hope so... Tired Molly?"

"A bit." she nodded. John smiled and got up, and headed to her edge of the bed. "Well, let's get you tucked in."

Sherlock got up and cleared away the bread wrappings and crumbs as John helped Molly into the blankets. The bed was decent, at least.

He strode over to the window and glanced out the dirty glass as he seated himself on the edge. Vaguely he listened to the sound of John soothing Molly to sleep, and smiled inwardly while his face was a blank mask. He hoped Mycroft was okay, he wished Mrs. Hudson was okay, he hoped he could make it home and alert his brother

A while later John's shadow fell over him in the light of the candle. He inhaled through his nose, staring into the murky world of the night.

"That bed will only fit two people." he said.

"You two share it. I'll make do." John said, immediately.

Sherlock didn't bother to argue. His lips turned up in the corner. "You're a good man. Molly is lucky to have you."

"Thank you." John frowned at him, but didn't bother to question it either.

"We should all sleep." Sherlock said, getting up from the window. He turned to John, who was looking up at him with the most disturbing expression. It wasn't twisted or horror filled, but the unspoken emotion behind his eyes made Sherlock want to say "No, shh, just shh, don't say it." whatever it was, all those sappy sentimental things that usually ruined a person, positively and negatively.

"Yes." John said, and glanced at the bed. He'd sleep on the floor if he had to, there was no way he'd let Molly sleep on the floor and whether Sherlock liked it or not it was now an instinct for John to put his needs before his own. He was sure the two would be okay on the bed, neither would get out of control because of their heat predicaments, they were both omega.

But Sherlock of course had other plans. "Come."

John stumbled along as Sherlock dragged him by the arm. "I'm not going to fit." he argued, half heartedly.

"You fit yesterday." Sherlock replied, and peeked up with a suggestive twerk of his lips. John's face went red and he lowered his voice in case Molly was awake. "I- ...this is no time to be talking dirty."

As usual Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard. He climbed into the bed and lifted the covers, centring himself in the bed. Molly had curled up right at the edge towards the window, away from the door, and left enough space to debate with.

The prince patted the small space besides him. "Come on, nothing is impossible if you try."

"We'll wake Molly."

"Get in."

"For goodness sake." John grumbled, but kicked off his shoes and climbed on. He moved in exaggerated motions so not to shake the bed, ignoring the dead pan expression Sherlock watched with, all for it to be for naught as Sherlock turned over none too gently and pressed into Molly's back.

John spluttered. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock placed an arm around her own and shifted slightly closer. He glanced over his shoulder. "Hold me the same, it will incubate warmth and save space. Bring up the blanket while you at it."

John looked at the bigger picture, and found that there was now space. He wouldn't take up that much more, so he lowered down and shimmed behind Sherlock. Unlike Sherlock did to Molly, John slid his hand around his waist and pressed close, still in danger of rolling off the bed should he turn over without caution. He felt Sherlock wiggle his lower half back towards him so it wasn't pressed against Molly, who either didn't mind the situation or was already in a deep sleep.

The two pillows and blanket served to just be enough for them. Slowly it grew comfortably warm and John's tense body relaxed. He hummed and caressed a soft circle on Sherlock's abdomen. If there was a protest he didn't hear it, and lifted his nose to take in the scent by Sherlock's neck. "…This is nice..."

"Thank you, John."

John opened his eyes, and waited for some explanation, but Sherlock remained silent. "For what?"

' _Everything_ ,' Sherlock thought, and felt Molly squeeze his hand. He returned it silently, and pressed his face to the pillow to sleep.

XxXXxXxXXxXXxxxXx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it isn't too sappy.


	10. Though Much was Lost, More was Gained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Might be choppy and abrupt. I'm sorry. Love the small twist, WHOO.

_**Chapter 10:**_ _**Though Much was Lost, More was Gained**_

Morning soon arrived and they had just enough money for another ride to the palace. John stared in longing at the pastries lining a bakery, but if they hired a small coach they'd be in the palace in a few hours and surely there would be pastries there. Sherlock's determination to get home won out and they found a cheerful man who was willing to give them the ride.

Surprisingly Sherlock started conversation and joked and laughed with the man. John was impressed, but ended up rolling his eyes when Sherlock slipped in a dozen concealed questions to do with the land and underground news.

Eventually they entered the main town of England and Sherlock brightened significantly. Molly and John looked around in awe at the magnificence of the town as neither had been here before. Sherlock had the driver drop them one block from the palace and its gates. The man bade them farewell, wished Molly a prosperous life, and rode off.

After fixing his hair slightly Sherlock beckoned for Molly and John to follow, who shared excited looks. They walked right up to the gates and John half expected to be chased away with guns. He and Molly trailed behind a few steps as Sherlock was met by two guards.

"Halt!" they barked, raising their guns, but not pointing.

The familiarity was comforting and for the first time ever Sherlock smiled at them. He waved down their professional manner and stuck out his face. "It's okay, it's I, Sherlock Holmes, your prince."

The guards stared at him for a moment before recognising him under the street rat look. They pulled back their weapons and saluted him with the utmost enthusiasm. "Prince Sherlock! You have been missing! I'll alert-"

"No, I will face Mycroft myself. Let my friends and I through." he said, gesturing behind him.

The one guard hurried back to have a few other guards open the gate for them, while the other bowed. "Of course sir. Do you need assistance?"

"Await word from your King, there might be need of more guards."

"Yes sir!"

Sherlock gave his own salute, surprising the guards, as he usually rolled his eyes and strode off. He then turned to beckon his friends. "Come on."

As much as Sherlock wanted to give them a tour of his home, they had to see to business first. The guards and servants greeted Sherlock excitedly, asking if he was well and if he was glad to be back. He threw all the answers they expected over his shoulder so not to alarm anyone, though his appearance and his company did that for him.

John stumbled a few times and even once ended down a wrong corridor, he was just so amazed. Molly wasn't fairing any better and clutched the coat close, feeling like a rat more so than ever. Sherlock eventually pushed them along just before reaching Mycroft's office. He greeted the guards carefully, who reacted the same, then barged into the room without any warning. Usually one should knock but Mycroft never engaged in anything scandalous and if he did it'd probably be for the greater good of the land, and so planned to the last detail. Sherlock had once thought it funny and laughed at the woman set to marry him and all his technicalities, but now that he knew who she was, it wasn't so funny anymore.

The doors swung open with a bang and he strode in, ready to greet his brother with his usually infuriating smirk, but it died before its creation at the two people in the room.

Mycroft jumped and looked up with a scowl. "What is- Sherlock?!" His face went completely blank at the sight of his brother, and he gasped, taking in his state a second later.

John had been planning to at least bow, but he and Molly jumped back, staring in horror at _The Woman_ , who looked equally as alarmed.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said carefully, "step away from that snake."

Mycroft did step away but towards Sherlock, feeling the utmost relief. "Excuse me? Sherlock where have-"

"She is working for Moriarty." There was no time to waste, no time to stall, no time for games.

Irene remained in character and blanched. "Lies!"

"It's true, your highness." John said, looking at Irene as if she was the Devil himself.

Sherlock held out a hand to his brother, staring down Irene who looked like a frightened animal ready to do anything to escape its entrapment. "Get away from her." He could see the look in her eyes, the shock, the question, and he cursed the woman for her excellent job at never ever wearing the same article of clothing or he might have caught on before John had.

Though Sherlock often came up with explosive ideas that no one could understand Mycroft humoured him and side stepped. He kept Irene in his peripheral vision, of course trusting his brother over the spoilt woman . "How do you know? Where did you go?"

"I was taken by the rebel army of Westhrow." Sherlock said, shocking Mycroft greatly. Irene fumed and glanced at the door, but two guards stood there looking equally as shocked.

Turning on his heels, Mycroft looked at Irene, and finally saw through her. Her expression gave her away, her pride was her downfall. "You hag."

Then she turned and ran for the window, but Sherlock was prepared and dashed after her. She was nimble and got out a leg before Sherlock grabbed hold of her arms and swung her away, kicking and screaming. The guards jumped to assist their prince and restrained her. She was surprisingly strong but they apprehended her.

"I will kill you for this." She swore, gazing at Sherlock with the intensity of the sun.

"Take her to the cells, under heavy guard." Sherlock said calmly, returning her gaze. "With our most trusted guards.

"I will see you perish for this Holmes!" She screeched, struggling each step of the way as the men dragged her out. John pulled Molly back, both receiving a glare full of torturous promises.

"Take her away." Mycroft muttered, looking away from the woman that fooled him. When her voice faded down the corridor Mycroft's expression softened and his shoulders slumped. "Sherlock, I feared you dead."

"I know, and I am sorry." Sherlock swallowed, surprising Mycroft, "I was foolish, and it landed me in the enemy's hands."

"My God. They've had you all this time? Are you okay?" This time it was Mycroft's turn to surprise and he took Sherlock gently by the shoulder, looking over his dishevelled beggar appearance.

"I'm fine, thanks to John."

The look on Sherlock's face was not one Mycroft had ever seen on his face and he almost couldn't decipher it. He turned and followed his little brother's proud gaze. "Oh?"

"I wasn't captured the whole time. I was living in Nottingham." Sherlock explained as they both stared at a blushing John, as if he was a popular ornament, "About two weeks ago it was attacked by Moriarty's men, and we were taken in."

"To where?"

"Just south of Nottingham, there is a massive camp there. He is building an army from the prisoners, we have to do something. There are innocent people there."

"My God, it is a miracle you are in one piece."

Sherlock shrugged off Mycroft's extreme relief. "They didn't know they had a prince, I kept as common as possible."

The King straightened and shook his head, but smiled widely, "You're extraordinarily lucky, do you know that? And foolish."

"I missed you too." Sherlock laughed, and briefly allowed an embrace. Mycroft smelt of comfort and he gladly took it in, thanking God he was okay.

When they parted, too quickly for it to be considered a hug but neither noticing, Mycroft nodded to the two standing in silence. "These are your friends from the camp?"

"Yes, this is Molly," Sherlock didn't even think to correct Mycroft on the word 'friends', and led his brother over and gestured to each person, "and this is Doctor John Watson."

"A physician?" Mycroft asked.

John stepped forward formally and offered his hand with a respectful bow. It was stiff and wooden but he didn't know how he should act, Sherlock wasn't a very good example. "Yes, your highness."

Mycroft took his hand and shook it, a snide smirk twitching into life. "I see. May I ask why my little brother is covered in your scent?"

John did a double take. He savoured the feeling of his head still being attached to his neck, and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. Molly stiffened behind them and looked back and forth worriedly. Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and smacked their hands apart, to John's relief, and pulled a childish face at Mycroft, who was more than happy to see it after such a long time.

"Oh for heaven's sake Mycroft, I'm a grown man."

"You also happen to go into rut this time of year and you know you are-"

"I also have a choice, in case it slipped your mind."

"Fine, fine. I just don't think now is the time to be having surprise babies."

John choked and Sherlock turned his head away with his own splutter. Molly slapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle as the three of them went red, but wrapped a hand around her own stomach in subconscious dread.

"Oh, do shut up." Sherlock hissed, and turned to narrow his eyes accusingly at Mycroft who looked more amused than even slightly upset.

"K-King Mycroft-" John started, then jerked back when Sherlock abruptly stuck a hand in his face.

"No, John, shh. You don't have to explain to him."

"He's the _king_." John hissed back as he pulled the hand down.

"And it's my life. Mycroft you may want to make sure no one has access to Adler, we don't know who is or isn't a spy.

Automatically back to business, Mycroft nodded in thought. "Indeed."

Sherlock pursed his lips and stepped up besides John. "Right. I'll be in my chamber with John. I need a bath."

"And your lady friend?" Mycroft asked as he reached for the telephone.

"I'd like it if she were treated like a priority guest, if you don't mind."

"Feel free." Mycroft said, and started punching in some numbers.

"Thank you. Come on."

Molly and John looked between the brothers in awe before smiling at each other and following Sherlock out. On the way Sherlock found the head lady of the palace and placed Molly in her care. The woman gladly whisked Molly away to treat her like a princess, after a few good bye hugs and 'I'll see you soon' promises. John was worried about letting her out of sight but Sherlock assured him the woman would keep Molly safe, this was a civil an safe place after all.

The next stop was Sherlock's private quarters. He barged in enthusiastically and groaned in delight.

"Ah! Just as I left it."

The room was massive. It was exactly what John had expected. A huge bed, velvet drapes, masonry floors and walls, decadent furniture, and piles of books. He shut the huge door softly and stumbled into the room in awe. "Wow, my whole house was as big as this."

"Like it? I do everything in here. I think best in comfort, at least for creative thinking."

John nodded, the room was fantastic. As he gawked around without shame Sherlock pulled off the shirt he'd coveted and threw it aside, and then as if he was five years old, ran and jumped onto his bed. He turned a second before he jumped so that he landed on his back, arms and legs spread out. He groaned again, and savoured the soft bedding, the familiar, the home…

A short surprised but happy laugh escaped John as he watched. He headed over, trying to count how many people could sleep comfortably on the bed, and wondered where it had been last night.

"Join me, John." Sherlock said, and patted the bed.

Knowing by now it was useless to argue with Sherlock he climbed up, and fell besides Sherlock. They stared up together at the sculpted ceiling, breathing lightly, enjoying the serenity.

"The bed could be a tad higher, what do you think?" Sherlock loved his bed to be high, it was a small fetish. Also, no one could stand over you with a knife. Mycroft used to tease him about being like the woman from the Princess and the Pea story. Well, he showed him, with a huge bucket of cold water. It was nothing to lift it high enough to drench Mycroft in his bed, and he happily explained such a stunt would be almost impossible because of the height of his bed.

John frowned and looked around as if Sherlock would make sense for once. "Any higher and I'll need a ladder to get on."

They burst into laughter together and both men felt happier and lighter than they had in a very, very long time. They lay for a while longer in silence, then Sherlock rolled to his side and pulled into John's side.

"You smell good." He commented.

John jumped as a hand roamed south, and glanced down at the prince. "Er, perhaps not…now?"

"Why not? Scared of my big brother?" Sherlock looked up from under his lashes, teasing John with a cocky gaze.

John smiled, but it was strained. As much as he waned to roll over and cover Sherlock's body with his own, he couldn't help thinking he was getting ahead of himself. "Sherlock, your brother was right, what if-? You _are_ fertile, you know. Your scent isn't potent for nothing."

"I won't get pregnant, I'm a prince." It was a lie, but they'd only done it once and until he took precautions Sherlock knew he had to be careful. He just wanted to feel John again. He brought his hand up to follow a stray seam on John's shirt, ignoring the look of concern.

"And your brother is the King. Unless he dies the only title you'll have is to become Queen. And having a baby will pretty much ensure that. Plus…I am not someone you should have a kid with, I'm no one. You're a prince, a step away from being a King."

"…You're wrong." Sherlock muttered, and looked up with an intensity that made John's argument dissolved in his throat.

"Am I?"

"…You're mine."

The best sleep John had ever had was in Sherlock's bed. It was like sleeping on the clouds, and with Sherlock nestled besides him he could have believed he was in heaven. It was a small effort to go to sleep, all things considered, and Sherlock loaded a rifle and stashed it beneath their pillows before they lay to sleep. But no alarm was rung, no screams were heard, and apparently Molly was being spoilt to death.

All was well, until the very next morning. A series of frantic banging on the door woke them from their sleep. Sherlock was quicker on the uptake and grabbed the rifle without even thinking about it. He swung off the bed and in three leaps he was at the door. John tripped slightly as the covers tangled around his feet and felt his heart jump into his throat.

Thankfully it was only the guards, "My prince!"

"What's wrong? Where?" Sherlock asked, obviously prepared.

"Moriarty has King Mycroft in his office." The guard gasped, looking horribly pale and concerned. John swore, and Sherlock jerked back in shock. Moriarty was here, how was that possible?

"I'll be there now," Sherlock choked out, and sent the guards off. He glanced at John, his face set into a stony gaze. "Stay here."

"What? You're not going alone." John barged forward.

"This isn't your fight anymore, you'll get hurt."

"You're not going alone."

"John-"

John grabbed his arm, and looked up with the intensity he learned from Sherlock himself. "No. I will not leave you."

"…Let's go."

They raced to the office, which sat with its doors open. A few guards stood nervously outside and John frowned at them as they passed. Inside the office Mycroft sat stiffly in his seat. Molly was present too, but held at gun point by Irene, who looked sickening smug. Then to complete the party was none other than Moriarty himself, brandishing his own gun that he held as if it were a burden to his precious hands.

The demon looked up as they entered and a twisted smile crept across his face.

"Oh God, Molly." John choked, unable to reach out and comfort her. Molly pressed her lips together as silent tears fell, but she kept dead still in front of Irene.

"Well, well, well. The little Holmes to the rescue. If only I had known you were with us, it would have been so much more fun." Moriarty actually sounded despondent. He pouted and nodded, genuinely regretting it.

Sherlock grit his teeth, and challenged the man with his eyes, the most evil man to threaten their land. "Unhand them and we'll talk."

"Oh no, I can't do that. I'm going to kill Mycroft. I haven't been standing here waiting for you to change my mind. No Sherlock, I just wanted you in the audience. Tell me what name were you going by when you were with us?"

"Doyle." Sherlock said, because it meant nothing anyway. He eyed Moriarty's gun and the approximate danger Molly was in between words.

Moriarty point his gun as if it were a pen. "And that's Mr. Watson that helped you escape? So romantic. It's a shame, now he has to suffer too. I hope he likes voyeur, because when I put on that crown I am pulling out all the stops. You should be grateful you won't be there to see it, Mycroft."

The king looked alarmed, but Sherlock kept himself as calm as possible. He slapped a filthy glare at Irene who just stuck up her nose. "Keep dreaming. You think your bitch over there will stay loyal for ever? You think anyone will if there is a chance to kill you?"

Moriarty tilted his head and stared at Sherlock with widening eyes. His face overcame with what looked like shock and he made a noise, as if realising something "You're right." He said, making Sherlock frown, then raised the gun cleanly and shot Irene before anyone could anticipate it. A chorus of shocked cries echoed, followed by a scream from John as Molly fell with Irene. "MOLLY!

Sherlock looked at Moriarty as if he was a monster, as did everyone else. Moriarty looked down at the woman as if someone had split wine on the carpet, and shrugged dismissively, turning his horrible eyes back to Sherlock who felt a lot less confident. "She always did demand too much. You were saying?"

"…" Sherlock didn't know what to say to this. Irene may have been on his list of people to punish but she had been his confident, his right-hand man and he shot her dead like an animal, so the limit of what he was capable of did not exist.

Mycroft stood stiffly, despite Moriarty's threat to keep him seated. "Moriarty, lets make a deal-"

Moriarty swung his gun, frightening everyone a step back and Mycroft back into his seat. "SHUT UP. If you so much as SQUEAK, I will shoot you in the navel, dig out your intestines and throw them over the _CHRISTMAS TREE_."

Sherlock held his hands up in surrender and stepped out the line. He lowered his gaze for a short moment to Moriarty's feet, his expression flickering lightly before he drew it back up carefully. "Moriarty, we can work something out."

"Not interested." Moriarty sing-songed.

"You haven't heard me out." Sherlock said, stepping a little closer.

A mocking frown dented Moriarty's face and he laughed, folding his arms. "I don't think you understand-"

"I'll let you breed me for a chance at the throne."

This had Moriarty double taking. Sherlock held his gaze and refused to release it lest his attentions cost another life, and next time it would be someone he cared about. He just had to keep Moriarty distracted, and that meant being unexpected.

It was John who spoke next. He sounded almost teary and his blood ran cold. "What? No. No take that back."

"Sherlock." Mycroft warned softly, keeping a better hold on himself than John who was almost about to pounce and drag Sherlock away from the mad man.

Sherlock ignored them both. "And I suggest a fair war. Best side wins the throne. And me."

Signs, too obvious signs full of derision, played on Moriarty's face. "I won't need you if I have the throne. And I will have the throne. No one can stop me. Not you, not you, not her," he pointed to the ground, never tearing his gaze from Sherlock's, "and not-" the sound of a gun being cocked cut him off. He turned, wondering if he was finally going insane rather than his usual madness. "…What?"

"You forgot me." Molly breathed, and shut her eyes as she pulled the trigger. The bang stung their ears and Sherlock dived to the side as Moriarty fell, and dropped dead. The shot was clear and right between his eyes, which were still open as he hit the floor. Molly gasped and stumbled backwards, opening her eyes a second later with a sob.

"God, Molly!" John cried, and hurried to gather her into his arms as she started to cry, dropping the gun like it was diseased.

Sherlock panted and stared down at the body. A pool of blood was rising from the back of the head, settling his urge to check if he was truly dead. No one could survive a straight bullet like that, and after a few tense moments it was evident that Enemy number one Jim Moriarty was dead.

Mycroft got up as soon as his legs allowed him to and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him roughly to his chest and hugged him hard. Sherlock returned it in an equally angry manner, hearing the guards enter now that the threat to their king's life was eliminated. They parted without a word and Mycroft ordered for the bodies to be taken away and started barking a few orders for the army general and alike.

Sherlock drifted forward, and placed a hand on Molly's shoulder. She looked up, and tried to smile through her sobbing. He smiled tightly. She was thoroughly traumatised and he would make sure to help her through it, but no words would calm her down right now. He hadn't thought she was capable of such a thing, and neither did she. When he stepped up to Moriarty he saw her fidgeting, very much alive, and as subtly as possible hinted his eyes towards Irene's gun. Molly caught on and followed through perfectly.

The room soon became a heavy buzz as authorities of all kind of the land of England hurried in and out receiving orders from Mycroft to begin the search for the rebel base now that Moriarty had been dispatched. Molly insisted through hiccups that she was okay and Sherlock insisted she sit down in Moriarty's chair. No one questioned it or even looked twice and she gladly tried to find her bearings, doing a few breathing exercises John had taught her

Once Molly was seated and looking somewhat stable John whirled around and jerked Sherlock to his chest as roughly as Mycroft had. He had tears in his eyes and his breath shook. He grabbed handfuls of the shirt Sherlock chose to sleep in and crushed the man to his chest, shocked at just how close they came to death, and Sherlock to his destruction by the most dangerous man in their land. As smart as Moriarty was, his superiority was his own downfall.

"I'm okay," Sherlock whispered, hugging the man back. Fear tainted his scent, and Sherlock noted to himself to keep that emotion far from John as much as he could. "We're okay."

"You make me so mad sometimes," John whispered back, not quite ready to release him. Sherlock humoured him and rubbed the side of his head on John's, who turned and kissed the side of his face. He forgot that there were people around him and savoured every second Sherlock was safe and leaning against him. He never wanted to feel that way again, that helpless feeling that you were about to lose someone precious to you…

"Sherlock…"

"Don't say it," Sherlock warned, and slowly leaned away so there noses nearly touched, "…Tell me tonight." He offered, and laughed at the bright smile John gave him. It was like a ray of sunshine, a certain ray he had always been missing in his life, and now that it was lighting him up, he wondered how he had been content without it.

The End.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THAT'S MY FIRST JOHNLOCK FIC WHOOO. 
> 
> Mrs. Hudson did survive, and you can bet she'd be moving to the palace once Sherlock goes to retrieve her. Molly did not get pregnant (I'm so sorry Molly). Irene and Moriarty had a few spies inside to aid them, who fled after their deaths. Lestrade survived as many others did, who were freed when the army arrived. 
> 
> I don't know if Sherlock has any babies. I'm really not sure. He and John gave me the boot as soon as the fic ended. I pry too much. If he does, it'll be Prince Hamish. Tada
> 
> It's been decided Molly and Mycroft fell into a love-ish relationship and being the Hero of England and the sweetest woman around Mycroft made her his Queen. Queen Molly, Slayer of Demonarty and Heart of Gold. I am weeping
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear your final thoughts~


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